


Virtuous

by Alcyone



Series: Virtuous [1]
Category: A Courtesan of Rome (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-10-09 04:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 45,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17399927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcyone/pseuds/Alcyone
Summary: There were certain values every Roman citizen was meant to espouse. Yet Antony seemed to stand in defiance of all of them.





	1. Frugalitas

“You have a visitor,” said Lena early in the morning. As soon as she saw Arin awake, she began to fuss with fabrics and jewelry. 

Arin squinted at her before turning her face to the square windows. The sky was a perfectly pale blue, the sun only recently risen. Cirta complained in his sleep, tucking himself further against her side. By contrast, Artemis sat on her hindquarters, ears raised. She sniffed the air with keen interest.

“At this hour?”

Lena pressed a bundle of indigo silk embroidered with cream and gold thread into Arin’s arms. 

“Antony himself is waiting. Hurry.”

There was no time to do anything but dress. Lena helped tie a gold belt around Arin’s waist and fixed her hair as Arin applied color to her eyes and cheeks. She sweetened her breath with baking soda and finally dabbed perfume at her wrists and behind each ear.

While Arin draped the matching veil over her brown curls, she heard a bark. Turning, she saw Lena trying to fit Artemis’ collar around her neck.

“She’s coming too?” asked Arin as she stepped forward, replacing Lena at Artemis’ side. 

“He insisted,” Lena replied as if she could not make sense of the man. 

Arin grinned. Leaning down, she scratched the dog behind her ears.

“You know who’s here, hm?” she said as she finished tying the collar.

Artemis’ slender body thrummed with nervous excitement. After attaching the leash—and making sure Cirta had a full bowl of fruit to eat or play with as he preferred—Arin left her room. Lena sighed. Under her breath, Arin heard her mutter, “Couldn’t take the beastly thing with you too.”

Antony waited outside the _scholae_ doors. He smiled when he saw her. Artemis almost dragged Arin off her feet in her intention to reach Antony, and he good-humoredly bent to greet the dog first.

“I trust you’ve been good,” he said to the dog, though he did not look away from Arin.

“She’s a ferocious defender.” Arin smiled at the old memory. “My possessions have never been safer than with her.”

“For which we’re all grateful,” he said with an eye on her clothes. His eyes swept from her toes to the top of her head as he stood. A slow thrill arced down her spine at the intensity of his gaze.

Arin ducked her head in a perfect portrait of the modest Roman noblewoman, before tilting her gaze up, peering boldly at him from beneath her eyelashes. She was rewarded by the darkening of his eyes. His kiss touched her skin a second too long to be proper, and there was nothing proper in the way his lips dragged slightly along her jaw when he turned his head.

“Lena did not tell me where we’re going,” she said as he stepped back.

Over his shoulder, Arin looked over the men waiting a discreet distance away. An elegant wagon lingered behind them.

“I’m heading out to the countryside,” he said, offering his arm to her. Antony led her to the wagon. “I thought you might like the excuse to leave the city.”

“Ah, so this is all for me,” she teased. “Nothing to do with you wanting me for yourself.”

Antony opened the door for her. “It can’t be both?”

As she climbed inside the wagon, she allowed her hand to drift across the skin of his arm. His fingers closed briefly around the silk wrapped around her hip as if he could not help himself. Artemis jumped in after her, and Antony let himself in last.

“Not riding today?” she asked him. 

Artemis had settled beside her into the seat. Her tail smacked the wood. Antony stretched out across from them, grinning slyly. 

“Are you offering?”

She pushed at his knee with her foot. He caught her by the ankle before she could pull it back. Examining her foot, he breathed out a considering, “Hm.” When she tried to pull her foot free, his hold tightened around her heel.

“Now, now…”

He slowly removed her sandal and drew her foot closer to kiss the top of it. Meeting her gaze, he playfully bit the pad of her big toe.

“Ah!” 

It was surprise rather than pain, and he let her go with a chuckle.

As soon as they were past the city walls, Arin felt herself breathe deeper. The early morning sunlight peeked through the gauzy drapes. She pushed them aside to feel it on her skin. Closing her eyes, she allowed the sunlight to warm her until its afterimage had been etched into the back of her eyelids. When she opened her eyes, she found Antony openly admiring her. He winked.

Antony was as relaxed as she had ever seen him, wearing an understated (for him) tunic so dark it was almost black the whole of which was richly patterned. The black leather belt matched the bracers covering his wrists. Despite the noise of the wheels on the road and the jostling, he tipped his head back and within seconds was asleep.

 _Ever the soldier_ , Arin thought wryly.

He wore no weapon that she could see, but only a fool would have thought him unarmed. One of his slaves carried his sword, she knew, but Antony was as capable without it. Broad in the shoulder with powerful legs and a physique that belonged on the gladiatorial arena. It easily led one to believe he truly was descended from Heracles.

Antony had told her the story over wine, laughing as he did. She doubted he believed it himself, but it served his purpose to have others do so. Arin had accompanied him to the Forum, his tunic cut so high his legs had been entirely bared, a rich mantle around his shoulders. The long broadsword he had worn on his belt had completed the look of a hero returned from myth. By contrast, she had been almost overdressed in a pale violet dress, a delicate shawl draped over her arms.

They had strolled through the Forum with heads held high, aware of the whispers and struggling to keep even expressions, and collapsed in a fit of giggles as soon as they were alone.

Artemis interrupted her musings, laying her head on Arin’s lap, and soon she too had joined her former master in slumber. Turning her eyes to the window, Arin watched the rolling green of the land surrounding Rome.

“ _Domine_ ,” one of the men called some time later. 

Arin startled; she had dozed off without knowing. Antony woke so easily one would have thought his sleep feigned. 

The man continued, “We’re almost there.”

“Let’s see it,” said Antony, sitting up and leaning to the window.

Peeking through the drapes, Arin spied the magnificent villa they were heading towards. 

“Are we visiting someone?”

“Not quite,” Antony answered cryptically. “What do you make of it?”

He had a game in mind, she was sure. She narrowed her eyes in playful suspicion at him. Antony held her gaze with an expression of such innocence she would know it put upon even if he had been a stranger. She turned her attention to the distance with an exaggerated sulking air. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a smile break across his face.

Even at a distance, the main building was sprawling. As they drew closer, she recognized the attached bathhouse, the servants’ quarter, the stables. The whitewashed walls all but shone in the sunlight. To one side she spotted rows of carefully tended trees, and she discerned a faint buzzing in the air.

“It’s very grand,” she stated after her examination. “Built by someone who wanted to know the honor of labor without sacrificing any of his comfort.”

Antony barked a laugh. 

“You’re not wrong.”

He remained frustratingly quiet as to their exact location or their purpose. She wondered if he had perhaps brought her to his own villa, and dismissed the thought as quickly. Had it been his he would have said so. 

At the villa, there was a flurry of activity with their arrival. A young slave unobtrusively stood by to help her from the wagon, but Antony waved him off. Arin detected a nervous thrum in the air. Servants and slaves alike snuck glances their way. The main doors had been thrown open in welcome. No one came to greet them.

Beside her, Antony stretched.

“That’s the last time I make that trip in a gods forsaken wagon. What do you say?” he put to her. “I remember you’re the accomplished horsewoman. We stay the night, ride back to Rome in the morning.” 

Arin leaned in subtly so that her words were for his ears alone. “If you’re not afraid of being bested by a woman.”

Antony reached again for her. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he pulled her close. He pressed a light kiss on the bend where her neck met her shoulder. His breath ghosted over her naked collarbone.

“I look forward to it.”

A man bravely interrupted them. Antony straightened, rolling his eyes in faint annoyance. Arin stifled a smile. With Antony’s blessing, the man introduced himself as the overseer. While he bid them welcome, Arin breathed in. Gone was the stench of the city. In its place was the comforting scent of tilled dark earth and the sweetness of the breeze off the hills.

As soon as Artemis was on the ground, she began sniffing a trail off to their left. Arin gave her leash a tug.

“Peace,” she cautioned. “We are guests.”

“She seems to have caught the smell of something,” Antony observed. “Perhaps we should trust her.”

Arin shot him a questioning look, but he was still maddeningly unforthcoming. Giving in, Arin allowed Artemis to lead the way. 

Artemis took them around the villa. The overseer kept pace with them, telling them how many _iūgera_ the villa covered, its crops, and its latest profits. As they grew near one corner, the buzzing she had dimly heard grew louder. The overseer confirmed her suspicions, proudly stating they harvested their own honey for the table. In addition to the bees, the villa also boasted cows for milk and sheep to make cheese and produce wool.

After touring the grounds, they entered the main villa through the servants’ entrance despite the man’s protests. In contrast to the bustle outside, the villa itself was quiet. Arin’s eyes passed over the walls. Colorful frescos of country life brought them vividly to life.

Antony’s hand found her lower back. 

“Do they remind you of Gaul at all?”

He, too, was examining the frescos. She heard nothing but idle curiosity in his voice, which prompted honesty from her.

“The days were not nearly so easy. Or so clean. But the presence of so much mud would destroy the Roman illusion of country life.”

The corners of his lips turned up. 

“Were Rome to run out of hypocrisy, the people would starve.” 

Ahead, sunlight filled the _perystilium_ through the rectangular opening in the ceiling. The space was long; she counted eight graceful columns rising to the ceiling. The open space in the center was filled with countless flowers and shrubs and ornamental trees. Water droplets still clung to the green leaves. 

As they strolled through the paths, Arin pointed out the plants she knew. She bent once to pluck a couple of ripe berries. She popped one into her mouth and offered Antony the other. He ate it from her hand, his lips closing in a brief kiss around her finger. His tongue flicked her fingertip.

Artemis remained undistracted. She led the way through the villa and into the atrium. Arin almost pulled her back. The floor was composed of countless tesserae. The colored pieces had been scrubbed until they shone. 

Rather than continue the rustic theme, these frescos came from myth, though which myth she could not readily identify. Antony did and, as he told her the story, she admired the artistry. A few seats were grouped near the pool in the center; sunlight pouring through the opening directly above it lit the water.

Through a doorway, the found what had piqued Artemis’ interest. In the _triclinium_ , the slaves were finishing laying out a feast. They bowed their heads and stepped back respectfully as she and Antony entered. Artemis began sniffing at the nearest table. Rather than return to her side when Arin called her back, Artemis went instead to Antony, sitting before him and turning her pleading eyes on him. Antony raised his hand.

“Don’t look at me. Your mistress said no.”

The servants and slaves retreated, leaving them alone for the first time all day. Arin stretched out on one of the couches; Antony claimed another. Artemis laid down before her, her head on her paws. 

She was hungry enough to focus on the food, but soon she looked up, sucking the last of the grease off her fingers.

“All right,” she said. “I give up.”

Antony’s eyes widened. “About what?”

Arin waved a hand at their surroundings, bending her hand delicately at the wrist. Antony followed the movement.

“This place. Why are we here?”

He shrugged. “I wished to show it to you.”

“And who owns it?”

“You do.”

Arin’s hand dropped. “I do?”

Antony plucked several grapes from the bunch before him.

“It was a retreat for a senator who fled Rome and, unfortunately, suffered a tragic accident on his return. It passed to me to decide what to do with it and I am offering it to you. The building, the grounds, its slaves…they are yours should you want it.”

For once, she was speechless.

“So…the tour—”

“To see if you liked it,” he said. He watched her, expression even. “If you hadn’t, we would have spent the day here, fucked in every room, and gone back to Rome.”

Arin shook her head in incredulity. “And the cost…?”

“Covered by me.”

He sat up.

“Consider it,” he asked her. “Think of this as your escape from the city.”

“And a space for you to visit as often as you wish?” she asked, recovering. 

His smile gave her his answer before he spoke.

“If I say yes, will you agree?”

He _was_ dangerous. He was also her best means for survival. There was a vow that went deeper than all else, which promised to ease the ragged hole her tribe’s destruction, her family’s splintering had left in her chest…even if nothing could hope to fill it anymore.

When she slid onto the couch with him, his arms wrapped around her waist. He kissed her until she was dizzy.

(She told herself the rapid flutter of her heart meant nothing.)


	2. Severitas

Only Antony would gift a woman a villa and then insist she leave it.

“What was the purpose of this,” said Arin with a gesture at her surroundings, “if you did not mean for me to stay here?”

“We’ll come right back,” he promised with a sly grin. “Lock ourselves inside for a week.”

“Two,” she asserted. 

She sat up as he abandoned his seat to join her. His hand curled under her chin, tipping her face up.

“Better.”

His lips had barely touched hers when he exclaimed in pain. Cirta had jumped onto his back and pulled on his ear. 

“Cirta!” 

He abandoned Antony as soon as Arin scolded him. Cirta hopped into her embrace, skinny arms wrapped around her neck, his tail looping around her arm in possessive gesture. He chittered indignantly at Antony.

Rubbing his ear, Antony glared at the animal.

“I’m really starting to hate that monkey.”

“He’s a jealous little creature,” she said in explanation, passing a hand over Cirta’s back.

“So am I,” muttered Antony.

After dropping Cirta outside the room, she returned. Antony still looked disgruntled so she took his face in her hands. Arin made a point of looking him over for injury. She saw a smile tug at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“Will I live?”

She pressed a light kiss to his lips.

“For many years yet.” 

Antony wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his lap.

“I’m meeting with the troops,” he said after kissing her again. “I want you with me.”

She drew back far enough to frown at him.

“And what would I be doing for the troops?”

“I hear you have quite the skill swaying hearts and minds.” He smiled knowingly at her. There was a challenge in his voice.

Arin rested her hands, soft and warm, against his jaw. She leaned in close. When he tried to close the little distance left between them, she did not let him.

“And you’re not concerned as to where I would sway them?” she said, letting the words fall from her lips onto his.

When she denied him her mouth again, he pressed a kiss to her collarbone instead.

“Do you think I should be?”

“I think you’re not concerned enough about what you should,” she said with a little sigh. His breath ghosted over the delicate skin of her neck. “And I, fool that I am, am too concerned with your good opinion of me.”

Antony raised his head. 

“Do my ears deceive me?” he said with mock awe. “Dare I hope I have your affection at last?”

“You may hope.” 

Her tunic slipped off one shoulder. She seized his momentary distraction to slip free of his embrace, tossing behind her, “But I think I shall torture you with not knowing a while longer.”

“What have I done to deserve this?” Antony called after her.

“What haven’t you done?” she asked archly to which he only laughed.

* * *

They set out a few days later: Antony, a few of his friends, several guards and more slaves. With Arin came Cirta and Artemis whom she would not leave behind and a new guard Lena had assigned her in place of Syphax. His name was Aetius, born in Macedonia, and that was all she knew of him: when she looked upon him she saw only Syphax, sold to a _ludus_ because he chose to protect her. Shame curdled her belly.

They made for a strange caravan, but an entertaining one. Antony’s friends were like him: boisterous and quick with a jape, with an impressive ability to drink most they met under the table. One, in particular, drew her interest, a man Antony greeted with a wide grin and a booming yell of, “Curio, you miserable cock!” Curio only laughed and clasped Antony in a firm embrace. 

“Gaius Scribonius Curio,” he introduced himself to her when Antony failed to. 

Curio was a few years older than Antony, yet looked of an age with him, which she attributed to the years Antony had spent soldiering, with a wide, friendly face and permanent mischief in his eyes. A tribune, he was able to fall into conversation with near anyone, drawing laughs from even the most severe-looking among them. And he showed no surprise at her presence. 

“I wondered when I would meet the famed princess of Gaul,” he said as they watched the last of the preparations. “I was starting to believe you were a myth.”

“Are you sure your wife will be happy with you talking to a courtesan?” Antony interjected from where he was looking over his horse.

“She’s not my courtesan, is she?” Curio returned. 

Antony smirked. 

“You looked like you needed a reminder.”

“You’re not cowed by him,” Arin observed idly when Antony was distracted yelling orders to one of his men.

“I’ve known him too long. My father used to throw him out of our house. He thought Antony a terrible influence,” Curio added with a sly grin. 

Coming up to them, Antony scoffed. “Your father had his head up his own arse. He refused to acknowledge the only terrible influence in Rome was you.”

“Remind me, Antony,” said Curio, “how many times did you sneak in through my ceiling?”

While they settled into the comfortable bickering pattern of brothers, Arin turned to another of Antony’s friends.

“Can we expect this all trip?”

He tipped his chin down to her respectfully, a smile he could not quite suppress tugging at his lips.

“If you can believe it, your presence improves them.”

A few soldiers joined up with them, further swelling their numbers. Their affable manner was almost enough to make her forget they _were_ soldiers and so vociferously loyal to Caesar she was surprised to find them outside of his arsehole.

She said as much to Antony when they had set up camp for the night. He laughed loudly as he undressed.

“They’re deep Tenth! Of course, they are. Caesar levied them himself in _Hispania_ before taking them with him to Gaul.” 

Arin looked over her shoulder as if she could peer through the tent’s flaps to the camp beyond. Antony’s fingers slipped under her chin, exerting a gentle pressure until she faced him again. He wore a small, strangely serious smile.

“You don’t like that.” It wasn’t a question. 

She held his gaze.

“Had it been you captured, sold…what would you have done?”

To his credit, he seemed to weigh her question. His fingers drifted from her elbow to her shoulder and back down again as he spoke.

“Much as I’m doing now,” he said. “Upset the order. Let the comfortable men quake. Only I wouldn’t be as well-positioned to do it.”

“Those comfortable men opposed Caesar’s invasion.”

“Only because he did it in a way they disapproved. Never forget, my dear,” he said, dropping a kiss to her naked shoulder, “those men who condemned Caesar’s actions only did so because of the risk it brought to them, not out of any concern for Gaul. If not for that, Caesar could tell them to climb inside his arse and their only response would be, ‘How deep?’ But I,” he stretched out beside her, his hand tracing her spine, “would much rather climb inside something else.” 

Turning over, Arin slowly brought her knee up. She pushed herself up on her elbows toward him.

“How deep?” she teased.

He waited to hear her quiet gasp, a low moan behind it, before breathing the answer against her mouth.

“To the hilt.”

From the start, Antony sought her with an almost violent passion. It seemed like every other moment he was reaching for her, tugging at her linens and silks with a desperation like drowning, tossing her onto a bed or cot or pinning her against the wall, the floor. She met him hungry touch for hungry touch, ragged kiss for ragged kiss. She had been trained in the arts of love for years, had known desire for other men as well as women, yet Antony awoke a fire in her that threatened one day to consume her. 

“I don’t know why I bothered to bring any clothes,” she japed one day. “You hate me in them.” 

She gasped at the heat of his mouth on her breast. His laugh rumbled against her skin.

“And take away my fun undressing you?”

“Disarming me, you mean.”

The guards and slaves were too well-trained to react to their frequent disappearances. Curio, however, was all too happy to respond with innuendo whenever they broke away from the group as he had earlier.

“I’ll just tell our host not to wait for you, shall I?”

Lena, Syphax…they would warn her again of how risky her game. (Her family would not know her.) Even she, princess of the barbarians, was expected to demonstrate dignity, self-discipline, sobriety. She was a courtesan, celebrated by Rome, not a common whore. But Antony expected none of it, and she was tired of playing at being Roman. Arin happily burned with him, tearing her own clothes and his in fitful jerks, her nails scoring lines down his muscled back, her teeth leaving crescent marks on his shoulder or on her arm when she tried to muffle her cries. 

It _was_ a game…though the gods alone knew its end.

* * *

They struck south, making _Puteoli_ their first stop. Arin wrinkled her nose. Even with the memory of Rome, a stink like rotten eggs clung to the surroundings. Yet _Puteoli_ had plenty to commend it, despite that. The massive moles jutting out to sea were dwarfed only by the size of the freighters unloading their goods. One afternoon, she watched the men unload grain—so much grain, she was certain the ship had no bottom.

“Where is all this going?” she asked one of the foremen.

“To Rome,” he called back. 

To Rome. Where such a monstrous amount of food would not keep the city fed for a day.

The fear of war hung over the port, but need and gold kept the shipping lanes open. With ships coming in from every corner of the Republic, Arin also got to see rarities after rarities: curious animals from Africa; strange plants from the east; spices from around the world; sculptures and paintings and instruments and jewelry. The fabulous goods made up for _Puteoli_ ’s rougher look: this was a place for commerce, not beauty. That honor belonged to _Neapolis_ , nearby and yet a world away.

The city of _Neapolis_ was where the Romans went when they wanted to experience Greece without having to climb aboard a ship. Greek suffused the air instead of Latin. Everywhere she looked were theaters and baths and temples, including a magnificent one to the twins, Castor and Pollux, who had been afforded a place in the sky. Under the shade cast by a building, a woman she recognized as another courtesan argued philosophy with a group of men.

Arin’s education had been in poetry, music, conversation. Of history, she knew broad strokes: enough to understand the gist when others spoke, not enough to argue. Of military history she knew nothing except what she had lived. Where she encountered a hole in her knowledge, Antony was happy to fill it in colored by an acerbic commentary that never failed to make her laugh. 

In the city, they were invited by one of the magistrates to the odeon, a roofed amphitheater where musical shows took place. As the singers’ voices rose and fell, Antony told her the origin of the city: how a siren, Parthenope, tried to sway the greek hero Odysseus with her songs and, when she failed, threw herself into the sea.

“Because that will stop the wretch,” he noted.

Her body washed onto a little island just off the coast. The Greeks established a port they named after her and the New City rose around it. Many years later, when the city was occupied, Rome drove out its invaders.

“After which Rome decided to stay,” Arin guessed in a bland tone.

“And why shouldn’t she?” he said. “If the gods had not willed it so, she would not have succeeded.”

That arrogance was, above all other things, innately _Roman_. Only, Antony spoke it with a twist of mockery; every other Roman, with a deadly seriousness.

Partly for that, Arin found she enjoyed Italia more than she did Rome. She loved being able to get away from the city. For eight years she had lived within its walls, hating it with every fiber of her being, unable to get away from it even in dreams. The fields and hills of Italia offered her a reprieve. Rejoining the _Via Appia_ , they followed the great road through valleys and between hills and across fertile plains.

Similarly, she preferred the Italians. When she was young, they had been one and the same; every man living across the Alps had been Roman and terrible. It was not until she was dragged to Rome herself that she realized there was a difference. And it was on this trip that she saw the Romans had conquered Italia as they had conquered Gaul. Only, when rebellion proved impossible, they chose joining.

Looking at her hands, made soft from years of lotions and silks, she knew why the Italians had done as they did.

She discovered the reason for her presence soon enough. Though he had explained their purpose as overseeing the troops left, Antony met with the leaders at every major city and town they stopped at, hearing grievances, settling disputes and swaying those still undecided to fully devote themselves to Caesar’s cause. He employed a brash charm with the occasional thinly veiled threat that proved highly effective. She sweetened those most recalcitrant—and sometimes it fell to her to remind them who Antony was. 

She never tired of seeing Roman men blanch.

Like he had in Rome, Antony scandalized the local aristocracies with his penchant for drinking and gambling. At official receptions, he always appeared with Arin at his side, presenting her as the Princess of Gaul and affording her every courtesy as if she were in truth his wife. It took every ounce of her training to stop her laughing the first time he did. She could not imagine who would hate marriage more: Antony or whosoever became his bride. 

At every feast, the matrons always looked like they had eaten something sour. The husbands had a tick in their cheek. Yet they all had to hold their tongues; none would have dared offend Caesar’s chosen representative in Italia.

The soldiers, however, loved him. Antony would sit at the same table as they did, eat from the same plate, drink the same cheap wine and share filthy jokes and bawdy stories with them, and it would be as if he had always been one of them. 

She joined him here too and, if the men loved Antony, they worshipped her. Her presence alone seemed a gift to them.

She wanted to hate them, but they were a far cry from the men she had encountered in Gaul. Many of these were newly levied and green as grass. Their exuberance made them easy to tell apart from the veterans. Seated at Antony’s side, listening to a man describe a mishap with a spear that ended with a noseless sculpture in a temple she was reminded of her brother and his friends and the conversations they had around the fire. 

In truth, she found the soldiers better company than most of the so-called noble men. In the camps, the most forward a man ever was with her was when a soldier groaned as she finished a song and begged her, “Marry me, goddess.”

“Marry you?” she responded, eyes wide. “I cannot tell if you’re a man or a barrel.”

His friend clapped him on the back, hooting. “She has you there, Varius!”

Varius was a good sport and proceeded to prove her point by demanding more wine. He drank directly from the jug as the other men alternated cheering and chanting his name. Arin leaned into Antony, laughing with the rest. When Varius finished it off, Antony led the victory cheer.

When they finally retired, late enough in the night it was nearer to morning, Antony would often grab her in a firm kiss, his hands tugging at her clothes, his mouth tasting only of wine, but that night he only stumbled into the bed, dragging her along. She laughed.

“You can’t even keep your eyes open,” she teased, misinterpreting his intentions.

“The hell with that, woman,” he mumbled, already more asleep than awake. He hid his face between her breasts, his arm heavy around her waist. “I want to feel you.”

He fell asleep there while she lingered awake. Asleep, he cut a different figure. Softer, somehow. Arin let her fingers drift over his hair before tracing his face. Her fingers stumbled over the stubble roughening his cheeks. Antony’s arm tightened, pulling her closer. He muttered something which she did not understand except for one word: her name.

When she next woke, it was near dawn and she had shifted in her sleep. Antony still held her; she felt his breathe tickle her nape. She turned in the circle of his arms enough to glimpse him. When she laid a hand against his cheek, he turned his face toward her touch.

* * *

In each town they stopped at, the men approached her, some directly, others through judicious use of their wives. They presented her with requests and pleas disguised as flattery and gifts in the hope that she intercede on their behalf. It was not until the second such approach was made that she realized she was being treated not as a courtesan, but as Antony’s mistress. 

Arin tried on the title and found it strange. He was her patron. Every other attempt to qualify their relationship fell short. But that was what it must have looked like to Rome: first, given a villa; now, accompanying him on a weeks long trip where he made no secret of his fondness for her. She had been beside him as he visited town after city to discuss their needs and how to best serve them while half the Senate and most of the army—and with them, many of the men—were across the sea. And from her lofty position, she saw how Antony—insolent, profligate, scandalous—ruthlessly secured half of _Italia_ to Caesar’s cause.

One night, while Antony pissed everything he drank, Arin seized her chance to skim his correspondence. Under multiple letters, she noticed the name Lucius repeated often and Gaius, news from Rome and from the east. Nothing useful to her. Antony received messages from Caesar himself, but these he either hid well or destroyed after reading.

She wanted to know more, but it was dangerous to ask Antony too directly. He trusted her more, but she was not certain of how much that was. Even were it absolute, she knew his fondness for her would not protect her if he believed her a spy.

The oft-repeated story from the east was that Caesar was readying to clash with Pompey. And though the great general’s name was still spoken in revered tones in certain circles, Arin remembered Gaul. As much as she longed to see Caesar humiliated and paraded through the streets as her family had been, she knew the truth. Caesar would triumph. 

And she would be beside Antony.

Time would tell if fortune favored her.

* * *

With Antony often occupied, it meant there were several hours in the day that were hers to do with as she wished. 

Arin devoted herself to wandering despite Antony’s warning to, “Keep a dagger on you or better yet your guard. These are times for unscrupulous sorts.” She followed his advice when night might catch her or they were near soldiers' camps. But for the most part, she made due with Cirta and Artemis.

Her favorite thing to do was to ride. 

Before leaving Rome, Antony had presented her with a dappled grey mare. He did not know if the horse had been given a name so Arin took to calling her Epona after the goddess. She was a powerful beast, quick as the wind, and to ride her felt like freedom. The first few times, Arin took her out saddled, but it was not long before she abandoned it and rode bareback as she had in Gaul. Epona adapted quickly, and soon Arin spent every available moment atop her horse, Artemis racing after them.

One day, she rode back to the villa they were staying at to the scandalized murmurs of the servants and the villa’s owner. Aetius, whom she had evaded earlier, looked like his heart was about to stop. Arin imagined what they were seeing. She had spent all day outside. Her wind-tangled curls fell heavily against her back, she wore a tunic she had deliberately ripped at the front to sit the horse more comfortably, and she openly carried a dagger on her belt.

She must have looked a true barbarian.

Antony was the only one who approached her, and the naked appreciation in his eyes felt strangely like a balm. She swung herself off her horse.

“You’ve kept busy.” He plucked a piece of grass from her hair.

She handed him her satchel.

“Result of my hunt,” she said. Turning to the villa’s owner, a middle-aged man who never knew what to make of her, she added with a genial smile, “For your table, _domine_. As thanks to our gracious host.”

When the man still gaped at her, Antony interjected, “Nothing to say?”

The man snapped his mouth shut. “I will have the cooks prepare them and have them served tonight. You are most kind, _domina_.”

Antony was smirking as he handed off the satchel. When they were alone again, or as alone as they ever were, Antony turned his attention back to her. He ran a finger across her collarbone, slowing when he came to the tattoo on her skin. Despite herself, she felt herself flush. From the darkening of his eyes, she knew he noticed.

“When I said to keep a dagger on you, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”

His hand strayed to the hem of her tunic, dipping briefly beneath to graze the swell of her breast, and she shivered.

“Do you not recall? I am a barbarian princess.”

He dropped his hand, the pads of his fingers finding her thigh through the tear. He dragged his hand up slowly. Her breathing sped. 

“My mistake,” he said. 

Leaning in, his large hand settled over her hip.

“I think we’ll send apologies to our host for our lateness.” 

As predicted, they arrived late. From his plate, Antony offered her the first bite. She took it from his hand and tipped her head to accept his kiss. The roasted meat tasted like home.

* * *

They followed the _Via Appia_ to its end: the great port of _Brundisium_. A marble temple at the water’s edge flanked the end of the road that began in Rome’s Forum. Arin had to crane her neck to see the designs crowning the shining white columns.

Where _Puteoli_ had stories of war, _Brundisium_ had tasted it. This was where those senators who fled had gone along with Pompey and his men. This was where Caesar had chased them. The proof of siege was scored outside its walls; inside, the streets still bore the marks of ditches and barricades.

The people welcomed Antony with open arms. Petals were thrown over their heads. Everyone sought to lay a hand on Antony, clapping his shoulders, his back, his arms. The guards struggled to keep them at bay, but Antony thrived in the attention. He caught one long-stemmed bloom and kissed it. When he offered it to her, Arin slipped it into her hair. 

Arin wondered at their joyful reception until she learned the people of _Brundisium_ had supported Caesar during the siege. In turn, they greeted Antony as a hero, opened their homes to him, and put themselves at his disposal. By association, she was offered every courtesy, as well. _Brundisium_ was the gateway to the east and did not hide it: she had her pick of lustrous layers of raw Egyptian silk, silver and gold hair pieces from Antioch, perfumes whose vendor, speaking in a Greek-accented Latin, swore by Aphrodite that they would make her irresistible.

The harbors buzzed with activity. During their stay, Arin kept largely to the area around the inner harbor. The water here had formed a natural harbor shaped like an antler, which had given the port its name. Two moles had been recently added to the outer harbor; beyond them, she glimpsed military ships patrolling the sea. In the town proper, soldiers were a common sight. Aetius shadowed her steps where she went, and she did not begrudge his presence here. Sturdily built with dark eyes that missed little, a glance from him was usually enough to keep most at a distance.

“The Princess of Gaul! The gods smile on me today!” someone called to her. 

Arin turned as did Aetius. Curio approached them with an affable smile. He wore a long striped ochre tunic beneath a complementary green mantle fastened at his shoulder with a gold _fibula_. The colors sat well against his olive skin.

“The gods smile on you every day, then,” she answered with a teasing tilt of her head. “We’ve followed the same path since Rome.”

“Ah, but it’s rare to find you without your patron.” He fell into step beside her. “Tell me true: did you leave him trussed somewhere to keep him off you?”

“Who said it is not _I_ who needs to be kept off him?”

Curio let out a surprised laugh.

“You are bold,” he said. “The two of you are well matched.”

Arin turned her face to the water with a little smile.

“And how is it you are not at his side?”

“I had my own business to attend to.” He cast a look around, and something like sadness crept into his expression. “Who could have predicted it would come to this.”

Arin regarded him delicately.

“Are Caesar’s actions to be considered…whim?”

“Hardly,” he said with a little exhale wanting to be a chuckle. “The man does not make a move without first having considered the next four. I’m sure he had his concerns, but what plans he had when I would not know.”

“But surely a man such as you would have his ear. You are a tribune.”

She tipped her head closer to him, the whisper of her veil drifting over her shoulder. She had dressed that morning in pale pink silk so sheer only the many layers preserved her modesty. The fabric was so light the softest breeze set it dancing. It made her look soft. It made her look innocent.

It worked to her favor.

“For this year,” he said. “And not the only one. In truth, it is only in the past year that I have joined Caesar’s side.”

“Why the change?”

“Why do they call you ‘princess’?”

Thrown, Arin glanced at him. Curio patiently waited for her answer.

“My father was chieftain of our tribe,” she said after a pause.

“How long had he been chieftain?” 

“Before Rome interceded?” she asked lightly, her bitterness clenched tight at her molars. “Many years.”

“And I assume he was a good chieftain. What actions he took were to benefit the tribe.”

“I sense you are making a point, but I fail to see what it is,” she said a touch sharply.

He bowed his head to her. “My apologies. I will speak plainly.”

Curio stopped walking, and she did too. 

“Tribunes, consuls… They are all elected for a year. During that time, they can exercise their power to the benefit of the people. But a year is not long enough for changes to take. And come the next election, there is no promise that they will be kept.”

“So you would argue that Rome needs a king?”

“I would argue that a change is needed,” he pronounced calmly, not rising to the bait. “I believe with all my heart in the divinity of our glorious Republic. But I am not blinded to the knowledge that there are those who abuse the sacred offices to enrich themselves whilst the poor of Rome, growing ever in number, are abandoned in the streets. The Republic is under siege—but not by Caesar.”

It was the mentality by which the people of _Brundisium_ greeted Antony with flowers. It was the mentality by which the Italians threw their support behind the man who promised them equal dignity. That he was a blood-stained conqueror meant nothing: if the gods had not willed it so, his head would be rotting on a pike in Gaul. 

If the gods had willed it.

* * *

Antony joined her at the villa where lunch had been laid out. Despite having seen her that morning, he dropped a kiss to her cheek.

“You look a vision.”

“If I am to be your mistress, I must look the part.”

It was the first time she referred to herself as such and his smile widened. He pulled one of the layers of silk between his fingers. Antony leaned in. Rather than kiss her as she expected, he bit into the piece of bread she was holding.

“ _Ei!_ ” 

With an unapologetic grin, he sat back.

“It tastes better from your hand.”

“Flattery won’t earn you my forgiveness.” 

Arin turned her face away from him in dismissal. Unaffected, he helped himself to more of the food. At her feet, Artemis raised her head. Her tail thumped cheerfully against the floor. Cirta, in Arin’s lap, pressed himself possessively to her. The monkey watched Antony’s movements with suspicion. Arin relieved him of his grapes before they could be turned into projectiles.

“He really doesn’t like me, does he,” Antony observed.

She smiled to herself. “He has the measure of you.”

“I can’t blame him, then.” He took a healthy swallow of wine. “Tomorrow, we return to Rome.”

“By road again?”

“No. By ship. Curio has to get to Etruria. And I have to make sure Rome is still standing,” he said with a sardonic turn.

She lay back. “You and Curio make for interesting friends.” 

“Don’t believe a word he says,” he japed. “The man is a scoundrel.”

“Like you?” 

He met her gaze with a steady smile. “There is none like me.”

“So we return to Rome.” Her finger ran over the rim of her cup. “To lock ourselves in, was it?”

Antony looked at her. “I said we’re returning; I didn’t say we’re staying.”

She blinked.

“Where would we go?”

“I have business to attend to. In Cisalpine Gaul.”

She froze. “We’re heading to Gaul?” 

“The toga-wearing Gaul,” he said, his dark eyes studying her. “Unless, of course, you wish to stay.”


	3. Pietas

“Up you get.”

Antony swatted her behind. Arin complained about being woken up. As she blinked her eyes open, he slid from the bed, unashamed of his nakedness. A slave standing nearby offered him a drink.

Arin struggled to sit, the sheets tangled around her waist. The sky outside had the first tinges of color. She frowned.

“It’s not yet dawn! Why the fuss?” 

It was not like Antony to be the first up. She had known him to spend all morning sleeping, pin her to the bed for a quick fuck, bathe, break their fast together past noon, _then_ allow his servants to let in the man who had been waiting all morning to speak with him.

It had taken everything in her not to laugh at the man’s face, purple with indignation, and forcing a thank you through his teeth to Antony for meeting him.

“We have to take advantage of the low tide,” he said, pulling on a simple tunic. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

Taking her cues from Antony’s choice of dress and the implication that they’d be going into the water, Arin chose a dark blue linen tunic that bared her shoulders with detailing in pale violet thread at the hems. It would be simple to remove and don again, and would serve to keep her cool under the hot sun. A slave helped her pull half of her hair up in a coronet of braids; the rest tumbled loosely over her shoulders. 

In the mirror the slave held for her, Arin found her reflection. So much time recently spent under the sun had brought a deep tan from her skin. Despite how quickly her hair had been braided, the resulting crown looked deceptively intricate; a few wisps had been deliberately left loose to frame her face. Remnants of kohl still lined her eyes, darkening her eyes.

She could barely remember what she had looked like in Gaul.

Nodding to the slave in thanks, she followed Antony through the halls.

They were staying in another of Antony’s villas, only a short ride outside Pompeii. It was a beautiful site: standing outside she could spot the island of Capri to the southwest; north, the wide turquoise expanse of the bay stretching to _Neapolis_ in the distance; and finally _Mons Vesuvio_ ’s craggy peak rising above the landscape. They had passed under the shadow of the mountain on their way here. Antony had pointed to it and explained that once the peak had spewed fire and smoke. Arin had eyed the vineyards climbing up its sides and found it hard to believe.

She followed the sound of voices to the villa’s private dock. Antony was in the center of the hubbub, shouting commands. As the sun began painting the scene yellow, Arin was surprised to see the activity concentrated around two rowboats.

“Where are we going?” she asked once she had reached Antony’s side.

“Capri.” He smiled. “I have a surprise for you.”

As soon as the supplies were packed, Antony hopped into the nearest boat and extended a hand to help her. He gave the order and the men on the oars began pushing them out to sea.

The cleansing scent of sea salt filled her nose. Arin lifted her head to see a flock of seagulls turn above them. Beside her, Antony followed her line of sight.

“We’re blessed by fortune today.”

She turned to him with a delicately arched eyebrow. “You can divine the gods’ will now?”

Antony’s eyes widened in mock injury. “Such lack of faith. Did you not know I am an augur?” 

She laughed, certain he was japing, then noticed his look. Her lips parted in surprise.

“Truly?”

“I swear on Triton, let him drown me here if I speak falsely. There are fifteen. All elected for life. One died earlier this year, and I was chosen.”

“The gods must favor you,” she said, hoping to get a confirmation from him.

He provided it for her with a simple: “Someone does.”

Antony had no interest in the world of spirits; his concerns were more immediate and concrete. But for Caesar, one of his men with the power to look at the birds and declare divine approval for any of his actions—or disapproval for those of his enemies—was a powerful tool.

The man did nothing without a second purpose underneath.

Today, though, the politics were far away. It was a day only to themselves. As they neared the island, Antony told the men to go around it. She realized why when she spotted the massive stacks jutting out of the sea off the southern coast. The closer they got, the more disbelieving she was as to their size. An archway had been bored through the middle one, and it was to this one Antony directed the rowers. 

Arin sat up in amazement as the boat glided into the shadow of the behemoth. Her heart beat fast as she craned her neck to look at the rock ceiling high above them. The waves lapped gently at the walls. When they emerged on the other side, she turned around to watch it recede. The other boat, which had gone around, joined them.

“I take it you’re impressed,” Antony interrupted her.

She fixed him with a teasing smile.

“Name me something more impressive. ” 

From his look, she knew what he was thinking of, but instead he said, “Wait until you see our true destination.”

When they began to approach their ‘true destination,’ she understood the need for the small rowboats. They aimed for a hole in the wall that was roughly her height when she stood. As they neared the mouth of the cave, Antony warned her to keep her head down “unless you want to lose it.” He lay back, his feet to the prow, but she lay down on her stomach like a child again, eager to see a new fantastic thing before her brother.

The first thing she noticed was the water. 

While shadows rippled and danced over the walls and roof, the water glowed blue. As the cave opened around them, she slowly sat up. The light was not coming from the entrance behind them; it was coming from beneath. The water was more brightly lit than the air: like the cave was a tunnel leading to Neptune’s abode. 

The god himself watched over the cave; the waves lapped gently at the sculpture’s base. A resting area had been built near it and it was here the boat headed. She watched in fascination as every time the oars dipped under the water they appeared burnished in silver. When she lowered her hand, it too glowed strangely. Yet her hand was her own when she raised it and they were only rivulets of saltwater branching down her palm as they sought a return to the sea.

She felt Antony move behind her before his arms wrapped around her waist. His teeth grazed her earlobe.

“Let us let these good men take care of things and you and I join Salacia and Neptune.”

Stripping on the boat, Antony dove naked into the water. His body too was transformed by the eerie glow. Arin removed her tunic. She filled her lungs with air and plunged deep. 

The water was colder than she had expected, its glow visible even through her eyelids. Under the water, she opened her eyes. The salt burned, but she was rewarded when her vision adjusted and she floated in the goddess’ light. The only sound was the solid beat of her heart. When she rose for breath, the salt of her tears mingled with the salt of the sea.

She kicked around to find Antony floating nearby, the glitter of his eyes visible even in the darkened air. He cut through the water to her in powerful strokes, and pulled her body flush against his. His mouth sought hers.

Under the water, their joined bodies were lit silver and azure.

For a time, they played in the water. She sent a cascade of water over his head; he chased her and, when he thought himself nearing victory, she slipped her ankle from his grasp. They floated together, she loving the surprising buoyancy the salt lent. And when they tired, they headed to the resting area where they had food and drink and towels waiting. 

Antony nosed her naked shoulder as she finished off the last of the honey cakes. When she was done, he stood. The hiss of a torch being lit drew her attention. Antony took the lit torch from the slave and motioned to her. 

“Come. I want to see the rest of it before we go.”

“There’s a rest of it?” 

Pulling her towel closer to ward off the cooler temperature of the air, Arin took his hand. He smiled as he helped her to her feet.

“You didn’t think I brought you here just to show you this,” he said with a wave toward the water. “We have still to leave our mark.”

 _Leave our mark_ could mean anything from desecrating the senate to systematically humiliating a tribune. A bubble of excitement spread in her chest.

At the back of the cave, three passages led deeper into the cliff. Antony picked the first.

“Is this your plan to get lost with me?”

“I can think of better places.” The light flickered over the amused expression on his sun-beaten face. “I’ll guide you safely back out, trust me.”

“Trust you?” she asked lightly, but he stopped.

“Yes,” he answered, facing her. Raising his hand to her cheek, his thumb traced her bottom lip. “I would have your trust, Arin. But I am also a selfish man and I cannot seem to wait.”

She clasped his hand, her finger tracing a delicate line across his palm. She felt him shiver.

“And if I were to tell you you had it?”

She tilted her head, their breaths mingling, but he did not meet her kiss. She caught the brief glint of his teeth in the torchlight.

“You make me want to believe,” he said through a rueful grin.

She rose on her toes, her teeth briefly catching his lip.

“Should I not have yours in turn?” she whispered.

Her heart pounded as he pulled her tight against him, his mouth on hers. It was with considerable difficulty that he managed to pull back.

“We’re almost there. And then we can finish this.”

The echoes of their footsteps and the snap of the torch were the only sounds, then. At the end of the passageway, the space opened again into a smaller cave. Antony illuminated the walls and she understood what he had meant by leaving their mark. Her eyes roamed the names of the visitors that had come before them carved into the stone. Antony bent and came up holding a rock with a jagged end.

“You first or shall I?”

Arin smiled. “Go ahead.”

With a quick grin, he strode a few steps deeper into the cave before choosing his spot. Handing her the torch, he began to etch his name. After a couple of minutes, it was done.

“Now you.”

They traded rock for torch. Arin also dropped the towel. She smiled to herself upon feeling his eyes on her as she lifted the rock to the wall. Rather than her name, she formed the rough outline of her tribe’s symbol. By the time she was finished, her hand ached from the awkward hold she had to keep on the rock. But the symbol was recognizable, preserved in stone.

She took a step back—and into Antony.

His hands ran down her arms and up her sides again. The rough sensation of his palms on her soft skin drew goosebumps over her arms. She moaned quietly when he traced a line from her breastbone down to her hip, stopping just short of where she most wanted his touch. Then he retraced the line to her chest, cupping her breast.

“You are Venus herself.”

Antony, bastard that he was, sounded almost unaffected. But when she arched against him, she could feel the thick length of his erection against her lower back.

“Mm.” Arin reflexively caught herself around his neck as he massaged her breast. “I think the goddess would call that sacrilege.”

“More fool her,” he breathed against the back of her neck, pushing her still damp curls over one shoulder. “If she had seen you, she would know it praise.”

Antony’s lips found a spot just behind her ears that made her toes curl. Caressing her front, his hand again traveled down her body, this time settling between her legs.

She only needed to turn her head slightly to catch his jaw with her mouth.

“You’ll see us cursed.” 

Yet there was no real fear in her voice. A familiar warmth was coiling tighter in her belly as he continued to stroke her. Her fingernails dug into the back of his neck.

“Then we’ll make an offering to Dionysus. Get his help sheltering us from the goddess’ jealous gaze.” 

Arin gasped out a laugh.

“You would pit god against god?”

Letting go of her breast, his hand closed around her neck. She could feel the roughness of his palm, the result of years of swordplay and a hundred dead, against the delicate skin of her throat. But his grip was gentle, the pressure of his thumb almost tender as he tilted her chin up.

His dark eyes glittered in the cave’s strange light.

“I would set the heavens ablaze.”

Arin clutched his shoulders as if he were a lifeline. The roughness of the wall bit into her back where he crushed her to it, but she hardly felt it. Her legs tightened around his hips, and she desperately guided his mouth to hers.

The lights that bloomed behind her eyes burned brighter than the water.


	4. Prudentia

Arin smiled to see the walls of Rome. 

The ship's infernal rocking had made Artemis miserable. She had spent the entire trip from _Brundisium_ sick. When Arin was not trying to get the greyhound to eat or drink a little, she had to retrieve Cirta from wherever he had got underfoot. On the third day, Aetius had come to her rescue. Arin was still unclear on how he managed it, but by the time they were on horses again the monkey heeded Aetius' command and even sometimes abandoned her lap to scramble onto his shoulder. If she did not know better, she could have sworn she saw her stern-faced guard smile when Cirta offered him a piece of bread.

In the _scholae_ , Lena greeted them. The older woman sighed a little when she spotted Cirta beside Arin, his hand in hers. Arin hid her amusement.

“We've been awaiting you,” said Lena. “Your letter arrived a few days ago. I'm happy to see you both well.” 

There was the slightest emphasis on 'both.' It wiped Arin's smile and goodwill. 

“It must be dreadful to have to replace your merchandise.”

Lena's eyes narrowed.

“And I see impertinence is catching. Marc Antony may have encouraged this kind of behavior, but I will not.”

Arin bit her tongue sharply before she could say the unkind thing waiting on the tip of it. 

“Of course, Lena. My apologies.”

Lena gave her a warning look.

“Go on, then. You'll want to rest after your trip. We shall speak after.” 

Arin bowed her head respectfully and took her leave.

In the hall, she heard Lena ask, “And how was she? Really?” Arin slowed her steps, listening.

“She did you and your _scholae_ credit, _domina_ ,” said Aetius. 

“I am glad to hear it. I did worry…”

Arin continued to her room before she could be found eavesdropping. Lena's question was unsurprising. Aetius' answer, unexpected. She had not thought she left a positive impression on her guard.

The trip took more out of her than she had imagined. She slept in most of the days, only roused when Lena forced her to wake or when Artemis or Cirta could no longer be ignored. When she was not sleeping, she spent time with the other courtesans, sharing in new poems and songs and trading news, digging into her food with such gusto that Xanthe wrinkled her nose in disgust. 

“Must you eat like a barbarian?”

When Lena was not looking, Arin made sure to chew with her mouth open.

She made the trip to her villa, staying the night, where the overseer caught her up on the changes since she had last been there. In the evening, the setting sun drawing purple shadows across the land, Arin looked over the squat lines of her olive trees. It struck her that these truly were _her_ trees, and her heart ached.

 _My father would love the trees._

She had tried to catch glimpse of him or Syphax and failed. Even a pouch of coins had not been enough to get her a moment with either. And all too soon, her chests were packed once more. 

The slaves at Antony's villa let her inside immediately; one left to inform him of her arrival. 

She had scarcely been waiting when the door pushed open and a man walked in, calling for Antony. Artemis surprised her by barking in greeting and almost ripping the leash from Arin's hand. The stranger beamed to see her.

“Is that Artemis? I've been wondering where you got off to, girl. Finally made good on your escape, did you?”

He knelt to pet her. Artemis panted happily. When he looked up, the grin settled into a more knowing smile.

“Though I can't blame you for finding better company.”

There were enough similarities in the man's face to tell her he was related to Antony. He was younger than Antony, almost of an age with her, and based on that she assumed him a brother. He did not keep his hair shorn and it fell over his brow in careless curls. His eyes were the same shape and color as Antony's, but this man lacked the guile that marked Antony.

“I think you have me at a disadvantage,” she said with a tilt of her head.

“Lucius Antonius,” he presented himself, confirming her suspicions. She remembered seeing his name in letters sent to Antony and smiled in greeting.

“Antony has not mentioned you,” she commented. 

Lucius waved a hand.

“I'd be worried if he had. What man would pay for such lovely company only to despair over his brothers?”

“One who knows so many hours must be compensated.”

His laugh too reminded her of Antony. Both laughed deeply and openly, more like the plebeians from which they arose than the patricians among whom they moved. 

“ _Hours_ aren't nearly enough,” he told her with a wink. “Once our good and principled senators return with their tails between their legs you should ask them. Cicero lays out an especially compelling case for our being possessed by evil spirits.”

“You're not trying to scare her off, are you,” Antony interrupted them, dressed for travel. 

“Unfortunately, she doesn't seem the type to scare easily.” Lucius sighed exaggeratedly. 

Arin giggled. Antony ignored him.

“Arin, how is it possible you are more radiant,” he said to her, taking her into his arms. “One of these days, I shall go blind.” 

As Antony kissed her cheek, she saw Lucius barely restrain his eye roll. Arin bit back a smile.

“Hardly a week has passed.” 

“And it was too long. I shudder to imagine one more day.”

“Speaking of the blind,” Lucius interjected, “is Curio here? I need to speak with him before he goes.”

Antony shook his head. “You've missed him.”

“Curio's not coming with us?” Arin made a small moue of disappointment. “That's a pity. I had hoped for more stories of your misspent youth.”

“You know far too much already, woman.” To Lucius, he added, “He set out yesterday morning. Business in Etruria.”

Antony caught Lucius' eye. A nonverbal communication passed between the brothers. 

“Another time, then,” said Lucius with a little shrug. Turning to her, he bowed gallantly. “I am delighted to have finally made your acquaintance, Arin. Don't forget me when you're next in Rome.”

Antony pointed to the door. “Out.” 

When he had gone, Arin turned to Antony with a coy smile. “Am I to meet your family now?”

“Not if the gods are good. Lucius will stay in Rome and keep me updated as to its going-ons.”

“With Gaius?” she asked, recalling the other name from his letters. Antony unknowingly confirmed it.

“Gaius was tasked with the defense of Illyricum in case Pompey should try to march his men through it and into Italia. But _you_ should only be concerned with one brother.”

“Lucius, then.” 

Slinging an arm around her waist, Antony pulled her flush against him. He nosed her neck. She giggled at the ticklish sensation, which quickly turned into a yelp when he bit the sensitive skin there.

He was in a genial mood so it surprised her when he straightened. He pulled away without letting her go.

“Soon, we'll be in Gaul.” As he spoke, she could not decipher the look in his eye. “When we're there, keep in mind these aren't your people.”

Arin made a point of glancing down at herself. “Have I changed so much?”

“Undeniably,” he said with a lingering look at the layers of linen wrapped around her body. He pulled at her shawl until he revealed the tattoo on her collarbone. “That might be what keeps you safe.”

Arin refused to let herself be intimidated. Yet even as they took to the road, the words tumbled in her head. Chances were it was a true warning. And they were as good this was yet another game. Lena told her Cisalpine Gaul had been a province of Rome since long before either of them had been born. And Arin knew that for almost nine years the governorship of Gaul had been Caesar's.

Yet as she pushed Epona to a canter, Artemis running beside them, Arin could not stop the flutter of her heart.

Antony was right. She had changed. Now to see what had become of her home.

* * *

They followed the _Via Flaminia_ north. Soon Arin realized they were tracing the path Caesar and his legion had taken entering Italia. On this path, they crossed the Rubicon—no more than a stream marking the border between Gaul and Italia. She looked around her as if there might be a marker of what had happened here earlier: a lightning strike; a hole in the earth; the waters churning. Anything to prove the gods' displeasure. There was nothing. Only red mud and long reeds and the song of birds.

Antony's smile was a knowing hint of a gesture noticeable around the eyes rather than the mouth.

“Welcome to _Gallia Togata_.”

The “Toga-wearing Gaul" stretched north from the border with Italia comprising all the land this side of the Alps. The province was governed from the city of _Mutina_ on the great line of the _Via Aemilia_ , but they kept east of it, where the city of _Bononia_ rested at the foot of the Apennines.

 _Bononia_ 's location on a river along with the many roads connecting to it made it an important commercial and military center. From here, it was a simple matter to strike toward the Alps to Gaul beyond—or to turn toward Rome with all the resources of Gaul in hand. Despite being built in Gaul by people Rome still openly disdained as barbarians, _Bononia_ was a Roman city with temples, villas, aqueducts, baths. 

The people here were Gallic in appearance: taller on average, lighter-skinned, and lighter-haired. Upon entry to the city, Arin counted several with vibrant red hair, a color rare further south. That, however, was where the similarities to the tribes ended. These Gauls wore togas as if they had never known anything else. They spoke Latin. They revered the Roman gods and dismissed devotion to the trees.

The sympathy she had had for the Italians turned to violence in her heart. While the rest of Gaul had united to confront the Roman invasion, these men had swelled Caesar's ranks. They had fought beside Rome against their brothers and sisters across the Alps. Many were still serving in the legions. 

A touch at her elbow had her look to the side. 

“You're falling behind,” said Aetius.

Arin gave a stiff nod. Her hands were clenched so tight around Epona's reins that her knuckles had turned white. She forced herself to relax her grip and spurred the horse on.

One of the magistrates opened his doors for them. He was Roman in appearance, his much younger wife Gallic; their children, aged ten and twelve, were a mix of both. They seemed to have been given strict instructions by their parents to impress their guests: while the boy made conversation, demonstrating an impressive awareness of current events, the girl recited poetry, composing long, surprisingly elegant verses. Antony promised the boy he would keep an eye on his future career and requested another original composition from the girl and just like that both children were enamored of him.

Their hosts threw a grand feast to welcome them. There were dormice dipped in honey and rolled in poppy seeds; roasted doves stuffed with fennel and nuts; a bed of oysters laid out like a mosaic. Beside those were delicate white strips of river trout baked in clay, trays of cheeses and fruits, loaves of bread still hot from the oven. Nearest Antony, a gleaming bronze bull carried two bowls on its back: one filled with black olives, one filled with green. Dozens of sweet pastries finished the display. And there was enough wine to drown a legion. 

Arin ate to be polite, but aside from a couple of bites of bread she could not stomach the food. As she looked at the faces gathered—laughing, smiling, eating their fill, watching the dancers hired to entertain them—her stomach roiled. She could hardly escape the name _Caesar_. By law, he was still their governor and they loved him. With his campaigns, Caesar had provided them with gold, slaves and prestige. And he promised them yet more. When they spoke of Caesar, it almost sounded like they spoke of a god. 

The response to her too was different. Whereas in the south when Antony presented her as the princess of Gaul it had been no more than an exotic descriptor, here, the people of Cisalpine Gaul watched her out the corner of their eyes. They judged her posture, her clothing, her way of speaking, and only after being deemed Roman did they smile at her and bid her welcome. She recalled Antony's warning: these weren't her people. To Rome, they were Gauls. Barbarians still. Hardly any better than the so-called savages across the Alps. Yet they, all of them, thought themselves Roman.

Arin played her role, speaking, singing, playing the _cithara_ , but as soon as she had the opportunity she escaped into the relative open space of the _perystilium_.

She was not alone by any definition, but no one approached her as she walked through the paths bordered with flowers. She filled her lungs with the cool night air and tried to get her riotous emotions under control. 

Spotting another figure, she realized she was not the only one having a difficult night. 

Aetius stood near a lantern, a paper in his hands. He was not reading; his eyes weren't moving. And there was something melancholy in his expression that she could not ignore. Arin approached her guard quietly.

“What news?”

Aetius startled, crumpling the paper in hand. 

“Arin.” He let out a breath. “Forgive me, I was—distracted. Is there something you need?”

“No, but you look like you do.” When he looked to argue, she tipped her chin to the letter he still held. “What is that?”

Aetius was silent for a long moment. 

“My brother is dead. A priestess wrote to tell me.”

“Oh.” Taking a step forward, she laid her hand on his arm. “I grieve with you.”

He nodded to her in thanks. 

“He was a guard, as well. Twins, but as different as night and day. He stayed to serve the temple. I wanted to leave. Try my luck elsewhere.”

It was the most Arin had heard him speak. She felt a twinge of guilt in her breast for having dismissed him so long.

“Let us find an altar and offer a prayer in his memory,” she suggested.

“You should not be concerned with me,” he argued. He rolled up the letter once more. “You have your duties.”

A laugh rose from the direction of the party.

“I doubt I'll be overly missed,” she said. “And…I have people of my own to grieve.”

A slave escorted them to the villa's private shrine. Arin looked over the death masks decorating the walls. They cast weird shadows on the wall. Aetius took a little incense from its holder and spread it over the lit coals. A sweet smell filled the air as he bowed his head in prayer to Ceres. After he moved out of the way, she mimicked his actions. The familiar smell of frankincense filled her head. With eyes closed, she could picture her mother before the fire, singing softly as she performed the rites to the goddess.

 _My father is a gladiator in Rome. My mother lives, though I do not know where she is. Of my brother, I know not. Please, Tsirona,_ Arin begged of her last. _Tell me they are well._

The goddess did not answer. She never did.

“There you are.” Antony appeared behind them. He looked between them, sensing the somber air. “Have I missed something?”

“I was feeling unwell, and Aetius suggested coming here,” she said, getting to her feet. It wasn't wholly a lie, and she was not going to betray her guard's confidence. 

“Oh? You're not sick?”

“I think I ate something that did not agree with me. But I'm better now.” At Antony's side, she took his arm and kissed his cheek. “You have my full attention now.”

They returned to the party, arm in arm. Aetius followed quietly behind them. Arin folded several of the olives, a small loaf of bread and one of the delicate pastries into a cloth and instructed a slave to give them to her guard.

* * *

A few days after their arrival, a message was spread throughout _Bononia_ and the nearby towns and cities, calling everyone to the forum for an important announcement. Soon, people began to fill the forum and riders stood by to carry the message to the furthest reaches of the province. 

Arin had in a place of honor among the wives and children of the magistrates. Their host's wife leaned toward her. 

“Do you know what he is to say?”

“No,” she answered. “He meant it a surprise.”

“A good one, I pray,” the woman said before straightening once more. 

Arin looked at her, at the hand she had wrapped around her son's shoulders. Her daughter leaned close to her mother on the other side. Arin turned her attention back to the crowd. 

Antony arrived after most were already gathered, dressed in a short tunic, a mantle fastened at his shoulder. The red of the mantle called to mind the crimson of the soldier's cloak, a deliberate choice on his part. He had agonized that morning over his clothing until Arin suggested he go out naked.

“That's too impressive. No one will remember what I have to say.” 

She had thrown a pillow at his head.

He stood on the steps of the basilica. His eyes swept over the crowd. A small smile lifted the corners of his lips. 

“Friends,” he began, his voice booming over the square, “good people of this beautiful province! I come to you with news, direct from your governor, the savior of our Republic, Gaius Julius Caesar!”

Arin shifted her weight. Around her, the crowd let out a cheer. Caesar had crossed their lands with a legion, but he had not burnt their homes or harmed their people. That was what they remembered. Caesar had not conquered them.

“For generations, you have been faithful and you have been true, Romans in heart if not so under law. You have fed Rome. You have clothed Rome. You have bled for Rome. And yet those cowards who have now fled across the sea would deny you the right to call yourselves citizens of Rome!” 

The crowd let out a louder roar, mingled cheers and jeers. Antony let them cry out. When he drew a scroll from his tunic and held it up, they quieted.

“Caesar knows this injustice. And Caesar will not allow it to continue,” he intoned quieter now, but his voice still carried. 

The people pushed forward, closer to him, hanging on every word. It was masterful how he manipulated them. They followed his every move, responded to the emotion in his voice, the expression on his face. He raised the scroll over his head and the anticipation of the crowd was palpable.

“Under his command, a new law has been introduced, one that finally rights that most terrible oversight: your status. It is my great honor, nay, my greatest privilege, to announce to you that as of this moment every freeborn resident of Cisalpine Gaul is a citizen of Rome!”

The crowd erupted in an overjoyed chaos. Pigeons took to the sky in fright. A woman near her burst into tears. A father, carrying his son on his shoulders, punched the air, the little boy mimicking him. Soon, only two cries were recognizable over the din: _Praise Caesar! Praise Antony!_

And just like that Caesar had secured the undying loyalty of his Gallic soldiers. And he had the vote of an entire people upon his return. In his quest to be seen as legitimate—savior rather than conqueror—that was more important still. The people of Cisalpine Gaul, the _Roman citizens_ of Cisalpine Gaul, joined those in the south singing his praises. What did it matter that the provinces were still torn? Italia was for Caesar.

And it was Antony who delivered it to him.

She watched him hammer the proclamation into the basilica's door with great fanfare before turning to face crowd, arms raised.

“Praise Antony,” she said, her voice lost in the din.

* * *

Arin took Epona out that afternoon. 

She evaded Aetius. She left Cirta locked in her room and Artemis howling in the courtyard. As soon as they were off the road, Arin gave the horse her head. Epona flew across the fields. They rode fast enough for the rush of air to sting Arin's eyes. They rode fast enough for her to leave her tears behind her.

A river impeded their passage any further. Arin could have turned the horse to either side to search for a bridge or ford. Instead, she dismounted. While Epona drank her fill, Arin stared across the river.

The day was perfectly clear, the air bright and cool. Beyond the river valley, so far it seemed small, she picked out the gray-blue shadows on the horizon that were the Alps. And beyond them…

She did not know how long she stayed there. Soon, Epona shuffled close to her. She chewed on the long grasses nearby. Arin stroked the smooth neck. Epona raised her head, butting her gently. Arin chuckled. 

“My home was there,” she told the horse. “Beyond those mountains. I dreamt…”

But she no longer knew what she dreamt. Were she still in Gaul, she would have been wed. Borne her first child. Perhaps even a second. Her mother would have attended to the birth. Her father would have been stern in public, but privately he would have spoiled each terribly. Her brother, who gave no thought to marrying, would have taught his nieces and nephews useful things—and things meant only to irritate their mother. And when the day came that her brother would have taken their father's place, he would have named her child his successor.

But that was a future that could never be. It had torn itself to nothing like ash leaving only the black streaks of what had been.

When Epona was rested, Arin turned her back south. It was evening by the time they approached _Bononia_. Barking grew louder, heading their way. Epona shied nervously, but Arin recognized the long grey animal that skidded to a stop before her.

“What are you doing out here, Artemis?”

The dog only barked joyfully. Aetius followed behind her, a torch in hand. He drew his horse to a stop.

“That was a reckless thing to do,” he told her. Beneath the censure, she glimpsed his worry. A flicker of guilt licked her insides.

“I know.”

He shook his head.

“Lena warned me you were a handful.”

“What else did Lena say?”

He hesitated a moment before answering her honestly. “She said that you were willful and impulsive and that you are your own greatest enemy.”

“Lena knows her girls,” she said with a smile lacking in mirth.

“She also said I should look after you well,” he finished. “But I cannot do that, Arin, if you will not let me.”

Arin twisted the reins in her hand.

“It won't happen again. I promise.” After falling into step beside him, she asked, “Who else was sent after me?”

Aetius shook his head. “I came to find you. You're a capable rider, but these aren't safe lands. General Antony let me bring Artemis to see if she could find your trail, but he ordered that no one else follow you.”

She turned to him in surprise. “Antony did? Why?”

“I couldn't say.” Aetius frowned as if he too found it odd. “But he was firm on that.”

Arin turned over that piece of information on their return to the villa. In the stables, she handed over Epona's reins. Before she turned in the direction of her bedroom, she looked up at Aetius.

“Thank you. For going to find me.”

He bowed his head to her. “I do only as is my duty.”

She found Antony in their shared bedroom. He was writing a letter. Without raising his eyes from the paper, he inquired, “Did you have a pleasant ride?”

Arin did not answer. Stripping off her clothes, she dipped her hands into a bowl nearby and splashed water over her face and down her arms. As she cleaned and dried herself, the scratch of Antony's quill continued. She approached him as he was folding the letter. He stamped his signet ring into the glob of wax, sealing it shut. The shape was that of Heracles, fabled ancestor of the Antonii, wearing the pelt of the Nemean lion: the golden monster whose fur no sword could harm and whose claws rent armor, which only Heracles was able to slay. Antony had told her the story one night. Heracles had later skinned the animal with its own claw and worn the pelt. Some stories said Heracles' armor had been the pelt alone.

“Come to bed.”

“I was waiting for you,” he said. 

He rose at her insistence, lifting his arms so she could pull the tunic over his head. His bare skin felt hot against hers.

“Why did you come back?” he asked her later as they tried to catch their breaths.

“Hm?” she said, turning her head. 

Arin sat in the bed, nude but for the sheet covering her legs. Her heartbeat had almost returned to normal. Her hair lay heavily against her back, clinging to her neck and shoulders. The night air felt refreshing on her still overheated skin. Antony stretched beside her, skin glistening. His hand traced senseless patterns over her back.

“All this time you've done as I asked even if it meant gathering support for Caesar.”

“Did you expect me to raise an army?”

“And today you had a chance to escape. Why,” he repeated, “did you come back?”

Arin wrapped an arm around her knees. Closing her eyes, she focused on the gentle touch on her back.

“Sometimes I want to burn Rome to the ground.” 

The confession dropped from her lips. Without heat. Almost tired. Yet it was also the most dangerous thing she could have said. 

Rome was more than a city. Rome was the heart of the Republic. Rome was sacred. To make an attempt against Rome—to even speak against it—was to challenge the gods themselves. It was treason of the highest order: the charge that had been laid at the feet of Julius Caesar. It became the duty and the obligation of any Roman to do the traitor harm.

But Antony was not any Roman. And the gentle touch mapping the dips of her spine did not stop. 

“But more fires will only wrap the world in smoke.”

Opening her eyes, she found him studying her. In his eyes, she saw only shadows and glitter.

“I have been in Rome almost a decade. I hate…and I love.” She smiled ruefully at the contradiction. “I am more Roman than Gallic now. It's all changed.”

She sighed.

“It has all changed. That's what Cassius and the others do not realize. They are so blinded by their desire to keep things as they always have been, they cannot see the world has changed. Rome changed it. _Rome_ has changed. If not Caesar, it would be another man who stokes the resentment of the Italians, the frustrations in the provinces, the anger of the freeborn who starve whilst the wealthy keep more slaves.”

Antony's hand found her calf. “But you still hate Caesar.”

“How can I not?” So long as she was nailing herself to the gibbet. “But I also swore a vow that I would survive. And look at me. I have succeeded.”

“You have _triumphed_ ,” he corrected her, nosing her knee. His fingers traced over her thigh. 

“A slave and a reprobate,” she observed delicately, “risen far above our stations.”

He raised his eyes to her again. Their sly look sent a dart down her spine, another when he slid the sheet from her and draped her leg over his shoulder. 

“A terrible shame. Especially,” he turned his head to kiss and mouth his way up her thigh, “as I find myself very happy where I am.”

* * *

They had been in Cisalpine Gaul a month before Arin realized she was pregnant. Her bleeding had never come regularly or heavily so she had not been surprised when she had gone nearly three months with only a light spotting. The silphium tea she had consistently been drinking should have stopped the possibility. Arin had found reasons to explain away the longer hours of sleep, her queasiness during the day. It was not until her breasts had become so tender that she flinched when Antony cupped one that she could no longer deny the truth of it.

“What?” 

Arin shook her head. Her throat felt tight. “Nothing, it's nothing.”

Throwing an arm around his neck, she pulled him into a kiss. Despite herself, she shuddered when her breasts, strangely heavy, grazed his chest. Antony noticed her reaction and her distraction. Abruptly, he pushed her away.

“Antony—”

He shrugged her off.

“I've no interest in fucking someone who isn't here.”

He left the room and did not return. She suspected he found himself a whore.

That morning found her in front of the door of a local healing woman a slave pointed her to. The woman was Gallic too. The lines on her face and the strands of white peeking from the dark blond of her hair showed her age. In a corner, Arin spotted a protective charm like her mother used to make.

Taking a chance, Arin spoke in Gaulish. “I need hellebore.”

The woman did not blink. “Are you trying to kill a Roman?”

“A little one.”

The woman looked at Arin's stomach. “Better to have caught it quick.”

As the woman busied herself preparing the ingredients, Arin found herself confessing, “I don't understand how this could have happened. I was careful.”

“We do what we can, but some things are decided by the gods,” the older woman consoled her.

“I don't want this.” Arin shook her head. “I can't have this.”

The woman returned with a sachet and a small bundle of green stems, both of which she handed to Arin. 

“Brew it into a tea. And chew on this,” she said, touching the stems, “if you bleed.”

Arin opened the sachet. She recognized silphium, hellebore, mint… Swallowing tightly, she retied the string around the sachet. She paid the woman more than the purchase was worth. Outside, she drew her veil across her face.

That evening, Arin brewed the tea, then stopped. Was it truly because of the goddess that she was now with child? Her mother had told her to put her faith in the goddess, but that had been a long time ago and Arin was no longer certain if it had been true or only a wishful dream.

_A sign please, Tsirona._

But the goddess was quiet. Arin did not know what else she expected. The gods of her father had fallen with her people; the gods of Rome did not know her and did not care for her. What connection her mother had had with the goddess, Arin knew it not. She was alone. 

A flicker of light at the corner of her eye drew her attention. 

The full moon lit the water of the _impluvium_. Strange, entrancing patterns were thrown on the floor of the pool: flickering bands that varied from the deepest azure to bright silver. There was something in the water. When she reached into it, she found the water warm. The ripples distorted her reflection. The loose curls tightened; the eyes grew darker. 

She awoke to a slave gently touching her shoulder. The woman studied her with concern. 

“Are you all right, _domina_?”

Looking around, Arin realized she had fallen asleep beside the _impluvium_. One of her hands was in the pool. The moon still shone, but the water was cold. When she shifted, she realized she held something.

“I'm fine.” She sat up, and the slave moved backward. 

“Shall I fetch you some wine?”

“Food. Please.” 

Arin opened her hand. A broken chain of gold lay in the center of her palm. Two intact lapis beads clung to one side of the chain. They looked like the starry sky captured in stone.

* * *

Arin told Antony on the eve of their return to Rome. She was almost four months along by then and the rounding of her stomach could no longer be hidden. For a moment he only studied her, his dark eyes unreadable, and the pinch of nerves in her belly tightened. Then he was on his feet and catching her in his arms. As soon as he set her down, he was calling for wine and soon everyone in the villa was toasting their child's good health. If anyone found it improper that the mother was a Gallic freedwoman, they kept it to themselves. Her reputation as a courtesan wiped the stain of her origin from most eyes.

But it was not their opinion that concerned her.

When they were alone and she asked him for truth, Antony only said, “Families grow with the begetting of kings.”

“That's a dangerous word. Even in Gaul.” 

“His beauteous mother is a princess,” he said with a sly smile. “And I, at the moment, rule alone.”

Crawling into the bed behind her, he wrapped his arms around her. Antony laid his hands on her stomach, his lips at her ear. 

“Our child will bring into the world queens and kings.”

The fine hairs on her arms stood on end at the pronouncement. Disdainful of the gods though he was, she wondered if he might yet have a touch of prophecy in him.

* * *

In Rome, the days continued. No matter her state, she was still expected to represent the _scholae_. The difference: her arrangement with Antony was now exclusive. Lena charged him a frankly absurd amount that had Arin wincing when she heard it. Antony laughed and said, “That much?” The next day, he sent Lena the full sum and an _ornatrix_ , a highly prized slave trained as a hairdresser, as a gift. To the man who had gifted her a villa because he could, it must have been a paltry sum.

Not even the gift, however, seemed to ease Lena's concern. On Arin's return, Lena had questioned her so fiercely Arin briefly supposed she had been a torture specialist rather than a courtesan. Despite her doubts, however, Lena offered her support, and Arin was unspeakably grateful to her.

“Don't think this binding,” Lena advised. “A man can say many things at the start before the reality sets in. It does not mean he will acknowledge the child later.”

Softening, she cupped Arin's cheek gently. “But don't fear. Your child will be born free. That is a gift you give her.”

When she attended her calls, Arin took care with her dress to distract or disguise from her ever growing belly. It was an open secret that she was with child, and she felt no shame in it, but she preferred not to draw attention to her state. Fame—and by virtue of her chosen associations, infamy—was all well and good for the mother, but peace was all Arin wanted for her child. Already she feared that would be an impossible dream.

Lucius, Antony’s brother, became a frequent presence. The two frequently vanished behind closed doors. It had to do with the war, but as to the specifics Arin was not welcome. She was not yet sure what to make of Antony's youngest brother, but when Lucius offered his congratulations and his good wishes for a healthy birth, his voice rang sincere.

She joined Antony for meetings with the remaining magistrates, frequent parties, and even more frequent time alone. She would lean against a column in his villa, watching Antony, almost naked, training in the courtyard. He was beautiful to watch. It was in action that he thrived: wrestling barehanded, throwing a javelin, fighting with shield and blunted sword, taking on one opponent or several. Armed often with little more than a playful demeanor, he was nonetheless ferocious, never giving an inch until his opponent finally yielded after which Antony would extend a hand, help the man to his feet and, laughing, challenge him again. In moments like these, she had no trouble believing he was descended from a divine hero. 

When he finished, he would try to grab her and she, laughing, would try to avoid his sweaty embrace. Sometimes he caught her, and she squirmed in his hold as his mouth sought her jaw and neck. Often, she allowed him to catch her. 

Her pregnancy had not dampened his passion for her any. If anything, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. When they could, they spent entire days abed. She learned his body better than her own, the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, the arms and legs thick with muscle. Her fingers memorized every scar left from training and battle. 

It was as close to perfect as anything had ever been. The war was a concern, but a distant one: told in stories and letters and rumors.

And so it was that during a party, while she and the other guests were laughing at one of Lucius' japes, a slave hurriedly approached Antony.

“Urgent messenger” was all she heard, but Antony immediately stood and Lucius sobered. He followed after his elder brother.

When she caught up with them, they were deep in discussion. Another man stood with them, the messenger clearly. His clothes were travel-worn and he looked exhausted, but he stood ramrod straight before Antony in the stance of a soldier.

“Stand down. And bring him some wine,” he ordered a nearby slave. 

“Thank you, sir,” the man said gratefully. He followed the slave.

“What is it?” 

Arin laid a hand on Antony's arm, drawing his attention to her. In his hands, he held a letter. She could not see the contents, but she knew the seal on the wax immediately: Venus Victorious. The seal of Julius Caesar.

A buzzing filled her ears so loud she almost missed what Antony said.

“I'll have to leave you, my dear. I must return to _Brundisium_.”

Arin wrenched herself from her reverie.

“Nonsense,” she said, moving closer with an inviting smile. “I can still ride.”

“No,” he said so abruptly it left her feeling cold. He stepped around her. “I'll be sailing for Illyricum. You'll stay here. Lucius will look after you in my absence.”

When she looked at Lucius, the easy smile Arin had come to associate with him was gone. He was watching his brother, dark eyes narrowed. It was an expression that made the resemblance between the two more stark. Antony marched through the door. She heard him calling for the legion legates to be gathered.

“What's happened?” she asked of Lucius.

“Caesar calls for reinforcements,” was all he would tell her, but it was enough. 

Twin arcs of thrill and dread stabbed down her spine. If Caesar was calling for reinforcements, he was in need. Perhaps trapped. It might be he could fall.

But it was Antony who must answer.

She had forgotten how long the reach of war.


	5. Honestas

It had been a long time since Arin saw Antony in armor. As she watched him finish donning the ostentatious black pieces, she was called back to the scene of their meeting: her debut as a courtesan; his arrival bearing news of Alesia. Arin looked down at her lap where she held his helmet. The crimson plume was surprisingly soft.

“You’re very quiet.”

Antony had turned his head enough to catch sight of her over his shoulder.

“Am I?”

Antony nodded to his slave who stepped back respectfully. His calloused hand cupped her cheek. Arin tilted her head into his touch.

“Is that concern for me?”

“Only that I should need a new patron,” she japed, rising from her seat. Her throat felt tight.

“That’s all the motivation I need to return then.”

Smiling despite herself at his perennial confidence, she set the helmet on his head. His eyes did not stray from her face as she tied it under his chin. Fingers straying over his skin, she found his pulse easily. The beat was as certain as he was.

“I think you should take me with you, instead,” she suggested.

“Don’t tempt me,” he warned her. “I’ll hide you in a sack and secret you across the sea.”

“That will be quite the sack,” she said, laying her hands on either side of his face. The metal of the pieces lying over his cheeks warmed slowly under her fingers. 

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed him deeply. His hands pressed to her back as if he might make good on his word, as the first Romans had, and steal her. But then his hand slid to her front to settle over the roundness of her stomach. The baby had quickened a few days ago. It was calm now, but she knew Antony was thinking of that moment. Then, they had japed that it had been the baby wanting to say goodbye too.

Now she thought it might have been the baby trying in the only way it could to keep Antony in Rome.

“I’ll be back sooner than you expect,” he promised her. Looking at her stomach, he added, “Until then, I expect you to look after your mother.”

She raised her eyebrows. “He will?” 

“You’ve proven you can’t keep yourself out of trouble.” 

The corner of his mouth rose in an uneven smile that always drew flutters from her stomach. Arin swatted his chest, the effect significantly blunted by his armor.

Antony’s hand traced her cheek. The smile was gone. He studied her intently, his dark eyes tracing over her features. It was her heart now that felt too tight. 

Catching his hand, she turned her head enough to kiss his palm. She felt the tiny shiver that went through his body. Her finger toyed with his signet ring, one that bore the figure of Heracles triumphant against the Nemean lion. 

She did not know what to pray for. Victory for Antony meant victory for Caesar. But failure was equally abhorrent. In the end, she could only ask for one thing.

“Come back.” 

Long after the dust cloud kicked up by the men had faded behind the horizon, Arin still felt the heat of his kiss on her lips.

* * *

She heard the stories coming from the south. All of Rome did. How Pompey’s fleet blockaded the Adriatic. How there were not enough ships to ferry all of the reinforcements as well as the supplies the army would need. How Antony was trapped in _Brundisium_ until he could find a way to break the blockade.

Even as the promise of a terrible clash loomed ever before them, life in Rome went on. 

Arin spent more hours at Locusta’s side. As soon as she had returned from _Bononia_ , she had gone to see the Gallic wise woman who had taken one look at Arin and clasped her tightly to her breast. The kindness of the gesture broke something in Arin. She did not know how long she cried into Locusta’s lap, but the older woman had gently carded her hair, rocking her as if Arin were one of the children she had lost, quietly singing songs Arin remembered from her own mother. Faced with the certainty of having a child without her mother there—to know her mother might never meet her grandchild—Arin had wept harder. Locusta had let her cry herself out, then wiped Arin’s cheeks dry.

“Nothing happens without reason,” she had said, unknowingly echoing the healing woman in _Bononia_. “Now, you rest. For you and for the child. I shall pray enough for the three of us.”

Locusta had done more than pray for her. Teas to soothe her stomach, elixirs for her discomfort, oils and ointments to massage into her skin, Locusta provided her with all. When Arin tried to pay for them—it was too much to go without recompense—Locusta refused her.

“There is no charge for family,” she declared, sounding offended that Arin could have thought otherwise.

That day was different, however. Among Arin’s usual order was a bracelet: small, made of leather woven in an intricate knotted pattern, blessed by the goddess. It was nothing anyone might wish to steal, but she remembered her mother telling her it had powerful protective properties. It sat too big around her wrist, but it was not meant for her.

Locusta smiled at her. Her red hair was plaited that morning. It made her look younger, allowing Arin a look at the young woman who had once learned at her mother’s side.

“Send my greetings to the chief of the Catauni.”

Arin clasped the bracelet to her as she hurried to one of the handful of gladiatorial schools in Rome. Most were located far from the city: the Romans looked down on the gladiators as only slaves, but they also feared the risk that armed, violent fighters could pose. Spartacus and his revolt had proven it, and Rome did not wait for a second threat.

With her, Arin brought Cirta. In the _ludus_ , the monkey leapt from her shoulder, nimbly grabbing onto the vertical bars. He _ooh_ -ed in curiosity at the lock.

“Quickly, Cirta,” Arin urged him, though he did not need it. Almost too quickly to believe, he had the lock open and was handing both the lock and the pick to her her proudly.

“Well done!”

Cirta bounced on the bars. Arin caught him when he jumped on her, letting him scramble onto her back. He hugged her around the neck.

She lost her way twice, but soon she spotted the man she had been looking for. Syphax had his back to her, but even so she knew him. He wore a loincloth and nothing else, his dark skin glistening. The gladiator he was eating with noticed her first. Smirking, the man pointed her out. Syphax followed the line of his finger to her. A smile split his face.

“Arin!”

He leapt to his feet. Happy to see her old friend, she threw her arms around him. He embraced her as tightly. Cirta chattered in excitement, struggling to work his way into the hug too.

“I’m so happy to see you well,” she said. 

“As am I.” Syphax beamed so wide it was almost painful to see. His eyes twinkled with affection. “I heard you were out of the city, but no one could say—” 

The joy dropped from his face when he looked down. His hand moved near her belly as if he would touch her, but did not dare.

“Arin…are you—”

“Yes,” she said unnecessarily. She fought the desire to cross her arms over her torso. 

“It’s not Antony.” 

His eyes searched hers for confirmation. She did not give it to him.

“It could be no one else’s. _Don’t_ ,” she added a touch sharply when she saw him retreat from her. “I know what you will say, and I’m frankly tired of it. I know him. And I know what this means.”

Syphax shook his head. “Do you?” 

Arin breathed in before she said something she would regret.

“I didn’t come here to fight with you,” she said instead. “I wanted to tell you I have almost enough. I need to save a little more, but I will free you, Syphax.”

Lena had given her her earnings of Antony’s payment. It was more money than Arin had ever owned. Between it, her savings, and the salary she earned from the production at her villa, she had almost enough to buy both Syphax’s and her father’s contracts. She had almost enough to free them.

But where she had expected joy at the news or relief, Syphax took her hand.

“No. Free your father.”

“Syphax—”

“He has been here longer. And…” Again his eyes fell to evidence of her pregnancy. His smile trembled at the corners. “He should enjoy his years as a grandfather.”

Arin stepped toward him.

“You don’t understand. I have almost enough to free you both.”

“Then don’t wait,” he answered, stubbornly noble. She wanted to hit him. “Free your father, Arin. I know how much you’ve missed him.” 

She shook her head desperately. “I can’t leave you in here.”

Syphax touched her cheek with gentle fingers.

“This was my choice. I can wait as long as I must.”

The sound of shoes on stone drew her attention. The guards. Cirta chittered nervously. Arin looked back, eyes welling with tears, to Syphax’s determined face.

“You’ve become defiant.”

Syphax laughed quietly. “I learned from you.”

Arin took the bracelet from her wrist and pressed it to his hands. 

“Give this to my father if you can. Tell him I think of him every day.” She clutched both his hands in hers. “I _will_ see you free.”

She ran back before she could be noticed. As she rounded a corner, she dared look over her shoulder.

The line of Syphax’s shoulders had turned down. He looked hollowed.

* * *

Her attention was not only limited to old friends. With her arrangement with Antony now exclusive—and Antony himself at the southern end of Italia—Arin found the number of her engagements drastically cut short. But fading from the public eye was not an option, even in her state.

Arin made a point of continuing to attend events. Xanthe had more than a few biting comments to make about that, but Arin turned a deaf ear and adorned herself in gold and raw silk. She had to be seen in order to maintain prestige. Memory in Rome was long, but it could also prove fatally short. A few weeks out of sight and all the influence she had amassed would vanish like smoke. Instead, she worked to make it enduring.

With Lena’s guidance, Arin began to court not the wealthy and well-positioned, but the poets, the philosophers, the artists, the musicians, the artisans. Her newly exclusive status worked to her favor; all of Rome knew she was under patronage of Marc Antony himself. And with her invitations issued infrequently, she had soon built up a sense of allure Rome could not ignore. 

Her villa, in the hills outside the city, became a cultural center. She hosted philosophical debates into the dead of night; poetry readings amongst the flowers and vines; private concerts in the shade of the olive trees. Her reputation made it easy to draw the first clients to her: an Italian lyric poet whose verses drew tears from stone; a painter and ivory engraver whose portraits seemed about to move and speak; a freedman who played the lyre with such skill everyone who heard him took to calling him Orpheus. Arin used her connections to bolster them, and they, in turn, offered their services whenever she called on them. That those under her patronage were, more often than not, disadvantaged in some way in Rome was not an accident.

“I’m following your example,” she told Lena and was rewarded by the older woman’s proud smile. 

Lena touched her cheek.

“You are the one of my girls that I worry about the least,” she said, her brown eyes shining, “and the most.”

In public now, whether it was at a feast to the gods or simply strolling through the Forum, she was approached now by her handpicked clients and other petitioners. Aetius had his work cut out for him.

“You enjoy complicating my job,” he accused her one sunny morning as they climbed the Palatine. 

Arin paused in her steps, affording him a teasing smile. “I trust you to be equal to the task.”

“Trust in me a little less.” 

When she laughed, he smiled. 

Arin lifted her face to the sunlight. Before her, she had a dramatic view of the Circus Maximus where it lay between the Palatine and the Aventine hills. The richest and the poorest of Rome, opposite one another, united by the stadium. It was a pretty sentiment. Her eyes ran over the construction underway. Caesar had ordered the improvements to the Circus, which Antony had presented before being called away. The most obvious of the changes was the expansion to the wooden tiers holding the spectators. More plebeians and non-citizens could now attend the events while the stone seats nearest the track continued to be reserved for the senators and their like. 

Even Caesar, representing the people’s interests, wouldn’t be caught dead amidst the stink and the mud.

While the fringe of her followers often rotated, the core was largely consistent. Of these, none was more consistent than Antony’s brother.

Lucius, like Antony, seemed to thrive under attention. Only where Antony commanded it Lucius seemed content to let it find him when it would. As the last remaining member of his family in Rome, he was Antony’s representative in private affairs. As this was Rome, however, politics dominated even this sphere.

Parties continued—lavish excuses for counting, persuading and strong-arming allies. Lucius did not miss a single one. Arin began to suspect an appreciation for dice and games and a stomach for drink were traits passed down amongst the Antonii. With the brothers moving among similar circles, Arin found familiar faces, including many she had met during her recent travels. They all remembered her and soon it felt like she was on the road again following the _Via Appia_ or staying in a villa outside of _Neapolis_.

One such familiar face was Curio who was in Rome again and invited her and Lucius to join him at his amphitheater.

Curio had it built in honor of his father who had passed away only a few years prior. The amphitheater, the only of its kind in Rome, had been first unveiled shortly before Arin had her debut. As its name suggested, inside it held two theaters: two separate stages on which different plays could be hosted simultaneously and which then, with a loud crank of machinery, could form into a single stage. The seats could likewise revolve so that the audience could always be turned to the action. When Lucius helped her into hers, Arin kept a tight grip on his arm.

“You’re white as a sheet,” Lucius teased her as he took the seat beside hers.

Arin, whose sense of balance had become imperiled the further her pregnancy, narrowed her eyes at him.

“If I fall, I will drag Curio to court.”

Lucius laughed. “He’s a tribune. He can’t be sued.”

“He won’t be a tribune forever,” she said, baring her teeth in a smile, which only made Lucius laugh harder.

As if he had heard his name called, Curio himself came to join them, greeting Lucius first, then Arin.

“Look at you!” Curio clasped her hands in his. “You are—”

“As big as a cow,” she said with a smile, accepting his kiss of greeting.

“Nonsense,” he told her. “You look more beautiful than ever.”

“Ah! And now I know you for a liar.” She turned to Lucius, wide-eyed. “A tribune of the plebs!”

Lucius looked terribly solemn. He patted her kindly on the arm. 

“You are a magnificent cow.”

Curio threw his hands in the air. “An Antonius and a woman. There is no more lethal combination.”

Curio chose to sit with them and soon a group had formed around them. While Lucius and Curio launched into a conversation about men Arin had not met, she looked over the audience.

The divisions in the city grew more stark by the day. What few supporters of Pompey had remained were quick to vocally declare their loyalty to Caesar. The handful that refused, Cassius chief among them, stood out. She noticed him out the corner of her eye, sitting alone, ostracized even here. When his head turned, she faced away. She did not look at him again, but she felt his stare hot as Vulcan’s fire on her neck.

When the play was finished, Curio invited them to see the stages revolve. In their unsteady seats, they, and several other curious, watched the spectacular constructions move and lock into an immense stage. Awesome and unstable. This was Curio’s amphitheater.

“Big enough to host gladiator fights as well as _venatio_ ,” he said proudly, referring to the hunt and killing of wild animals.

“Don’t you have a zoo here, Curio,” Lucius asked him.

“I do. And a new order of leopards. A male and a female. Magnificent creatures. I almost want to keep them myself.”

“Have you seen a leopard before, Arin?”

“Only in drawings,” she said.

“Then you must see mine.” Curio stood. “Come, my friends. You shall not regret it.”

They followed Curio deeper into the amphitheater to a location behind it that Curio named his zoo. There, in two large cages, were the leopards. They were stunning beasts, long and sinuous. Arin thought them both black, until the male paced under a bright ray of sunlight revealing the markings on his fur. He snarled every so often at them, a quiet growl issuing from deep within his powerful chest. The female was pure black with striking yellow eyes.

“Would you like to feed them?” 

Arin looked to see Curio beside her, offering her a strip of meat from a bag. 

“Just don’t get too close,” he warned her with a friendly smile. “Or you will leave with fewer fingers than you walked in.”

Arin took one and tossed it into the male’s cage. He dove upon it, snatching up in his jaws in a second.

“Where did you get them?” Lucius asked Curio. 

As the two men began to discuss details, Arin wandered around the cages. Curio had given her the bag of meat. As she approached the female’s cage, she slid the strip through the bars. The female lingered in the back of the cage. Arin knew what she would do a split second before she did it. She let go of the meat as a blur of a paw snatched at the air. She stepped back with a smile, her heart racing. The child inside her turned.

 _Be as clever and be as quick,_ she wished the leopard. _Fool the_ bestiarius _and you may yet live._

“What do you think of my leopards?” Curio interrupted her.

“They are fine,” she said.

“Only fine?” He looked knowingly at her. “Perhaps it is lions that are more to your liking.”

Arin smiled to herself as she tossed another strip of meat to the leopard. It landed next to the bars. As the animal bent to grab the food, Arin laid a single finger atop the leopard's head. 

“Hm.” 

She ignored Curio and Lucius’ twin expressions of alarm as she examined her hand. Aetius looked less surprised, though he too had turned a shade paler. 

She smiled at the men. “I believe I still have them all.” 

“By all the gods…” Curio waved a slave over. “I need wine.”

Lucius slow clapped.

Arin returned through the halls ahead of her companions, Aetius a few steps behind her. As she made her way through the rows, someone called her name. Cassius was coming up to her. Like Syphax, he was brought to a stop by the sight of her stomach. Unlike Syphax, there was something like anger twisting his expression.

“So it’s true.”

Her hands dropped to her belly. Before speaking, she had to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

“Much is true,” she said, and she was glad to hear her voice was even. “For a start, someone is sure to fall here, seat and all.”

“Don’t joke.” Cassius had a new, harsh note in his voice. “You’re really with _him_.”

Arin felt Aetius tense. She discreetly signaled him to keep his distance. She regarded Cassius without a smile.

“He is my patron.” 

“He is a brute!”

“Are brutes so well-loved in this Republic of yours?”

Cassius’ eyes flashed.

“You are clever. So I know you have not forgotten who he is. What I don’t know is the currency he uses to make you pretend.”

The indignation burning in her breast seized her tongue.

“Thus speaks the man visiting the theater in Rome as his compatriots must gorge themselves on iron and blood.” 

Cassius’ hand clamped around her elbow. And Aetius seized by Cassius by the throat.

“Release her,” he commanded, voice dark.

To her horror, she saw the scene escalate. She saw another of her guards dragged off. The panicky tendrils scouring her chest made her command sharper. “Aetius, stand down!”

As soon as her guard released him, Cassius stepped back, rubbing his neck. His dark eyes did not look away from her. 

Pointedly, he asked, “Another?” 

Arin blazed with fury. “Leave.”

Voices were coming nearer. She was half-tempted to shout if only for the pleasure of seeing him dragged down the amphitheater’s steps. Cassius must have heard them too, and she saw him prepare for a fight before acknowledging the futility of it.

“Ask Lucius Antonius for their mother’s name” were his parting words. Inside her, her child tumbled restlessly. Lucius and Curio soon caught up to her. Curio looked toward the entrance.

“Was that Cassius?”

Lucius was frowning at her in concern. “Are you all right?”

“Only a bit tired.” 

She fixed a smile to her face and forced herself to relax.

“It can’t be easy being the size of a heifer,” Curio teased and she let out a little laugh.

Lucius offered her his arm.

“How good of Cassius to offer his congratulations,” he spoke quietly for only her ears as he helped her into the waiting litter. With a smile, he let the drapes fall closed after her leaving her alone in the muted light.

* * *

The news overtook Rome by noon. Antony had finally crossed the sea. He had solved the problem of a lack of ships by securing those from Hispania and Gaul. As soon as he had the ships in hand, he had turned to matter of the blockade. 

Roman warships were not designed for extended engagements at sea. Every few days, the ships had to dock and restock on supplies, especially fresh water. When Antony had word of his new ships, he had sent his men to take over the nearby islands Pompey’s fleet might use for water. With their ships being repelled from the islands—and the mainland in Antony’s firm control—in just a few days, the blockade had to break. And Antony sailed through.

Everyone was speaking of Antony’s cunning. How they voiced it depended on which side of the schism they found themselves. But for a time only Antony’s name was known to Rome.

From the man himself, she did not receive so many details.

_I caught old Libo when he was pissing to the wind. Come morning I’ll be surrounded by water and regretting ever leaving your bed._

It was very Antony: a crass, self-deprecating humor finishing on a private note of affection. Arin had sent him a tiny portrait of herself, a coin really, carved in ivory. She liked to imagine him carrying it under his armor between his tunic and his skin. But it was the final line in the letter that filled her with a terrible hope.

_When my son is born, name him after me. Upon my return, I shall recognize him as mine own._

He was wrong, though. The first pains ripped through her stomach during a party in Antony’s villa. She grabbed Lucius’ hand and he helped her from the gathering. She had half a mind to laugh when she saw he had led her not to the rooms Antony had given to her, but to Antony’s own bedroom.

Lena was the first to arrive, Aetius having rushed a message to her. By the time Locusta did too, Lena had helped Arin remove her clothes and settled her into a birthing chair. After almost a full day of labor, during which Arin took to biting herself to keep from screaming, her daughter slipped from her in the early evening, as quiet as the sacred groves. The baby’s features were strange, and for a moment Arin panicked at the sight, not understanding why Locusta and Lena both were smiling.

“She’ll be lucky,” said Locusta through tears. 

It was then that Arin saw the caul covering her daughter’s head. She watched as Locusta gently removed the membrane from the baby’s delicate skin and handed her to Lena to clean and swaddle. Arin barely felt the sting of the poultice Locusta began to apply to her torn flesh, so intent was she on the baby. When Lena finally set the baby in Arin’s arms, the older woman kept a hand under the infant to be safe, but despite her exhaustion Arin stubbornly held her daughter.

The baby’s hair was black as ink, her skin a warm olive shade. She blinked and suddenly she was looking up at her mother with eyes so dark Arin at first thought them black. An exquisite hurt seized her chest.

 _Thank you,_ she prayed to the goddess. _Thank you for my daughter._

When Lena permitted Lucius to enter, the room had been freshly scrubbed, all soiled towels and bandages carted away, and Arin rested in a fresh tunic on the bed, her daughter swaddled against her chest. 

“May I?”

Lucius cradled the infant. Arin watched him, and she noticed Locusta and Lena were keeping their eyes on him too. They all breathed a sigh when Lucius smiled at the baby.

“You’ve given my brother a beautiful daughter,” he said, and though she knew he meant the words as kind, they also sounded to her a warning. 

It was painfully common for infants to die shortly after birth and even surviving the first year was no promise that a child would reach adulthood. But Locusta, who dropped by to check on the baby every day, promised Arin her daughter would live a long life.

“The goddess has marked her,” she said, and Arin thought back to the caul her daughter had been born with. 

Arin looked down at her daughter’s sweet face where she slumbered against her mother’s breast. Greatness was every Roman’s aspiration, but it was not what she wanted for her Roman daughter. Greatness drew envy. Envy armed itself with blades. She had no wish to test her daughter’s luck against the edge of a knife.

But for the present, the baby did prove lucky. And on the eighth day following her birth, in the Roman tradition, she was named. 

Lucius stood in for Antony during the ceremony, and presented the baby at the end with a _lunula_ —an amulet shaped like a crescent moon, which she would wear until the eve before her marriage. It was a beautiful pendant, gold with a delicate filigree. At either side of it where it hung on a fine chain were the lapis beads Arin had found in Gaul. The flecks of gold in the stones matched the gold of the amulet so that the baby seemed to carry with her a piece of the night sky.

With the _lunula_ , she was given her name: Antonia. 

It was Antony’s wish, and Arin wanted her to have something of her father. The question remained as to what kind of father he would be upon his return. But in the present, he was as good of one as the circumstances could permit. His latest letter had arrived shortly after Antonia’s birth. It contained his congratulations on Antonia’s healthy birth and his promise that he would increase the money he provided her. 

_I am as eager to return to Rome to meet my daughter_ , he wrote in closing, _as I am to return to your arms. This little tantrum will soon be put down. Until then, I carry your portrait like Fortune’s kiss until the day comes I can kiss your lips again._

She would lay out all the letters he had sent to her on the bed, Antonia nestled against her chest. It was the practice in Rome to swaddle infants tightly that they may grow quickly into their adult shapes. Arin preferred to lay the baby against her naked chest, delighting in the sweet warmth and sweeter scent of her daughter. Antonia, too, was calmest when she had an ear to her mother’s heart. Together, the mother would read the father’s words to their daughter until Antonia either slept or began rooting for her mother’s nipple.

Arin’s own father was never far from her mind. He should have been there for the birth. He should have met his granddaughter the moment she entered the world. And a few weeks after Antonia was born, Arin finally had enough to bring him—and Syphax—home.

Syphax’s _ludus_ was closer and it was there she went first. The owner was unwilling to part with his prized gladiator at first, but a combination of honeyed words and a delicate reminder whose patronage she was under changed his mind. She left exultant, Syphax’s papers in hand. She wanted to wait for him—she had seen him only twice more since that first reunion—but the need to reach the _ludus_ where her father was kept proved stronger. 

She arrived only to discover he had already been sold.

“ _Sold_ him?” she repeated, voice as cold as she felt. “To _whom?_ ”

By the time Arin reached Lucius’ door, the rage she felt was clamoring for blood. He greeted her in the atrium, his face registering his surprise.

“Should you be up so soon?”

“Where is my father?”

“Your father…” He wore a pensive look that Arin nearly slapped off his face. “Ah! The Gaul. I thought there was something familiar. …He’s in the courtyard,” he finished before she _could_ hit him.

She found her father there as promised, and nearly stumbled. He was naked save for a loincloth, the many scars crossing his body displayed: proof that, after nearly a decade as a gladiator, he yet lived. On his wrist he wore the woven bracelet Arin had asked Syphax to deliver him so many months ago. He had been bathed, his long blond hair combed and even his beard had been trimmed neatly.

Arin did not hesitate.

“Father!”

Her father turned at the sound of her call. Bewilderment touched his features before a wide grin crossed his face. She saw him mouth her name, but knew not if he spoke it. The rush of blood in her ears stopped her hearing. 

Arin launched herself violently into his arms. He caught her, lifting her off her feet like she was a child again running to meet him on his return from a hunt. This was a reunion almost nine years in the making. She laughed and sobbed and when he finally set her on her feet she saw tears were streaming from his brown eyes.

“Look at you,” he said with something like wonder. Her tears came harder when she heard the familiar Gaulish tongue. His large hand came upon the side of her face. “Oh, Arin. Oh, my girl.”

She did not know how long her father held her. No matter how long, it was too short. Her father cupped her face as if trying to learn her features.

“How are you here? Why—”

“I went to the _ludus_ to buy your contract. But the man said you had already been sold.” 

She turned then. At some point during the reunion, the courtyard had been emptied of all others. Only Lucius remained, standing beside one of the pillars.

Her father frowned him too.

“He said I was to be a gift for his niece.”

“His niece is my daughter,” she said in Latin when she felt her father begin to step around her. 

That brought him to a stop. Across from them, Lucius wore an indecipherable smile.

“This is Lucius Antonius. Brother to Marc Antony…my patron.”

She sensed her father turn to look at her, but she was watching Lucius. He stepped forward.

“Which I believe makes us family. …Or perhaps not,” Lucius corrected himself when he saw the severe look on Victus’ face. 

“I imagine you have much to catch up on,” Lucius continued, “so why don’t we retire inside. I’ll have wine brought out. And clothes.”

His tone could as easily have implied they had been discussing which seats to take at the amphitheater. Arin took a breath to center herself. The desire to hit Lucius was still there, but other matters took priority.

“That would be for the best.” 

Inside the villa, Arin began to lay back on one of the couches until she looked at her father. Victus wore an ill-fitting tunic and he kept staring at the obvious wealth of the room and its furniture. Arin had stopped seeing it long ago: in the circles in which she moved this decoration was simple. He sat with his feet planted firmly on the floor as the Gauls did. 

In the next moment, shame cut through her. He was _sitting_. Just sitting. 

Lucius was across from them, the low table between them. He lounged in the Roman fashion and waved a hand at the table after the slaves had laid out a simple meal upon it.

“Please. Help yourselves. I find wine facilitates difficult conversations.”

Victus straightened and, even sitting, his size was considerable. He fixed a dark look on Lucius. 

“You said I was to be a gift,” he spat. 

“I did.” Lucius remained calm in face of her father’s anger. “Family is a gift. I felt our little Antonia should know her grandfather.”

His granddaughter’s name distracted Victus—which Arin suspected had been Lucius’ intent.

“Antonia?” This her father asked of Arin, and there was a vulnerable note in his voice that had her reaching for his hand. 

She felt the bite of tears in her eyes again, but she was smiling.

“I’ll take you to meet her,” she said quietly. The Gaulish words came to her easily like she had never stopped speaking the language. “She is wonderful, Father. You will love her.”

She ran her thumb over his knuckles and marveled at it. That was her father’s palm against hers. Those were his fingers laced through hers. It was such a little thing, being able to hold her father’s hand once more. But she could. She could.

Victus took both of her hands in his. 

“Forgive me,” he said and she was stunned to see him crying. Her father had always seemed to her a pillar: he never bent; he never broke. Yet his hands trembled in hers. 

“Forgive me,” he beseeched of her. “I failed you. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t protect our family. But I swear to you, in sight of all the gods, I will not fail again. Let me be Antonia’s protector. Let me be yours.”

Arin shook her head.

“You didn’t fail, Father.” She clasped is face between her hands. “You are the reason I’m still standing. You are why I’ve lived long enough to even bear a child. You did not fail.”

Victus pulled her close and kissed her brow. Arin clasped him close, inhaling the familiar scent she once thought she had forgotten.

When they separated, Victus remembered they still had an audience. He kept to Gaulish, tone even.

“Do you trust this man?”

“He is my daughter’s uncle. And he has helped me in the past,” she said, falling into the non-answers she had been trained in.

Her father did not accept them. “But do you trust _him?_ ”

That Lucius reported on her doings to Antony she had no doubt. Antony had made it abundantly clear in his letters, commenting on or providing advice on things she had not yet mentioned to him. Lucius was the only one who could be feeding him that information. Even this—buying her father to “gift” him to his granddaughter—could not have been done purely out of the kindness of his heart. She doubted it had been entirely his idea.

Lucius had also kept Antony’s house open to her for the nights when she could not find the energy or the desire to return to the _scholae_ or to her own villa outside the city. Toward the end of her pregnancy, when she could not find a comfortable position to sleep, he had stayed up the nights with her playing at dice and entertaining her with stories of him and his brothers growing up. And he doted on Antonia as if she were his own daughter, arriving each time he visited with a roll of colored linen or a new toy or a tiny bracelet from which hung a _fascinum_ to protect her from envy.

“I trust his love for his brother,” she said. “And I trust his affection for my daughter.”

Lucius accompanied them to the door, promising he would send his man along soon with Victus’ papers. Arin caught him by the arm. 

“My family is not a game,” she warned him in a low voice.

“I assure you, sweet Arin, there is no game.” Lucius patted her hand kindly before lifting it from his person. “Go home. Catch up with your father. And give that niece of mine a kiss from me. Tomorrow we can meet.”

At Lena’s _scholae_ , they met up with Syphax who swept her off her feet. Lena insisted they stay a while, but Arin pleaded exhaustion. By the time they reached her villa, the sun was setting, her favorite time of day. The hills around them were purple; the shadows of her trees stretched longer than they were.

At the doorway, Melissa, one of the villa’s servants, held Antonia. The baby was just waking. She blinked sleepily at her mother, a tiny frown on her little face. Victus did not take his eyes off the baby. From the moment Arin walked toward him, her daughter in her hands, to when they had settled in the atrium, Antonia safely ensconced in her grandfather’s muscled arms, Victus had not raised his gaze once.

When Syphax tried to excuse himself, telling her he did not wish to intrude on a moment for family, Arin grabbed his hand.

“You are family.”

Despite not being strong enough yet to hold up her head for an extended amount of time, Antonia insisted on lifting it, the better to take in what was happening around her. Then her little head would fall back onto her grandfather’s chest before she stubbornly raised it again. Victus was fascinated by every little thing she did, and Syphax too laughed at her antics.

Arin held Syphax’s hand as she leaned her head on her father’s shoulder. She let the sound of her family lull her to sleep.

* * *

The air changed in the weeks following Antonia’s birth. After her daughter came to the world a new year did too.

The conflict in Greece had stalled as each side attempted to starve the other into submission. Rome had savaged Greece, torn Hispania, crushed Gaul, razed Carthage. But Rome did not know how to fight Rome. Caesar—with the lesser numbers and the fewer resources—was ever at a disadvantage. Yet his soldiers were the more terrifying, talked of like beasts, not men. The latest story making the rounds through the Forum spoke of how they had baked bread from roots and tossed it over the walls at Pompey’s men in gleeful defiance. Some whispered that the reason Pompey had yet to commit to an assault was that he was well and truly scared.

The promise of violence was not limited to Greece. With his year as tribune up, Curio was named praetor and assigned to northern Africa where the king of Numidia had allied himself with Pompey. There was a great party to see him off. Curio wore a garland of flowers like a victorious wrestler and the wine flowed almost until dawn. 

Arin met his wife that night, a woman by the name of Fulvia. She was not beautiful, not in the sense the poets immortalized in verse, but she had a quality about her, nonetheless, that drew the eye. She lounged beside her husband, as comfortable among the rowdy company of men as Arin was herself. Curio noticeably deferred to her in all. When his garland slipped, Fulvia delicately fixed it and he gave her an adoring look Arin remembered seeing on her father’s face whenever he looked at her mother.

When the party finally waned, Curio embraced Arin warmly, offering his well-wishes for her and Antonia’s continued health. Fulvia, too, kissed her cheek as if she were another wife rather than a courtesan.

“Do come and visit again.” Fulvia graciously extended the invitation to Arin and Lucius beside her. “There is a great need for friends in this Rome of ours.”

Arin had made her peace with Lucius. She had hounded him the day after, cornering him in the Forum. Lucius had given her the papers himself; he had had Victus manumitted. It made Lucius his patron, responsible for any actions her father might take against the people or property of Rome. And it made her father, finally, a free man.

Yet even that joy had not distracted her.

“Can’t you simply thank me?” Lucius had sounded exasperated.

Arin had stopped in front of him with a tight smile so as not to draw more attention than they already were arguing in the streets. 

“The _truth_ , Lucius.”

“I told you the truth. Family _is_ a gift. …I don’t know what you expect from me, Arin,” he had added, laughing, when she had fixed him with a dark look. “What kind of man would I be to keep my beloved niece’s grandfather in the arena?”

The grandfather in question did not bother disguising his dislike for Lucius, which amused Lucius to no end. They had settled into a half-adversarial relationship in which Lucius seemed to have made it his goal to get a rise out of Victus while Victus visibly restrained his urge to punch him. Arin tried to prevent contact between them in the name of peace, but it was difficult with Lucius as Victus’ patron. Instead, she made certain Victus always had Antonia with him on the rare occasion Lucius dropped by rather than Arin calling on him.

Her father would not try to kill Antony’s brother while tending to the baby. She hoped.

Syphax adjusted to life at the villa with ease. When he met Aetius, the two men—her former bodyguard and her current—bonded over the challenge of protecting her. Arin was less amused with their stories than they were. Antonia adored him, immediately searching for him when she heard his voice. Though Arin insisted he did not need to work, he would not hear a word. He turned out to have a rare affinity with the bees. He could approach the hive and not get stung. When she asked him how he did it, he smiled. 

“They know I’m a friend.”

She wondered at how he could still be so kind after what he had experienced. Had it been her, she would have been resentful, angry—as she had been coming to Rome. But Syphax never blamed her or lashed out. As she watched him playing with her daughter, his laughter mingling with the baby’s giggles, Arin could only conclude he was a much better person than she was.

A few days later, during a gathering of poets she was hosting, another familiar face crossed her door.

“Sabina!”

Grinning excitedly, Arin threw her arms around her old friend. Sabina hugged her back tightly.

Divorce suited Sabina well. The meek woman Arin had encountered during her debut had flourished. She held her head up higher and dressed herself in brighter colors. Her face was fuller, her brown eyes shining. Arin clasped her hands happily.

“What are you doing here?”

“My cousin mentioned you have gatherings here. I thought, perhaps, I might listen.”

The mention of Cassius drew a flicker of irritation: she had not forgotten the insult that day in the amphitheater. But Sabina was a friend, one of the few who had proven true. Drawing her arm through the other woman’s, Arin drew her toward the small group gathered already.

“Only if you share some of _your_ poetry too.”

After, she and Sabina sat on the floor, looking over the carefully tended garden in the _peristylium_. Antonia sat in her mother’s lap, trying to reach for a flower. Sabina picked it and tickled Antonia with it. 

“What are your plans now?” Arin asked her.

“My father wishes me to marry again.” She looked up proudly. “But I have managed to convince him to allow me to choose.”

“That’s wonderful! But…” Arin shifted Antonia onto her shoulder, “is that something you want?”

“The…companionship of men…is not something I will ever _want_ ,” Sabina said carefully. “But it is my duty to be a wife and bear children. And at least now I will have a say in who my husband will be.”

Arin laid her hand on Sabina’s.

“I will speak with the other courtesans,” she promised. “Between us, we know all. Who prefers men, who would look away…who smells.”

Arin wrinkled her nose at her and Sabina laughed.

“But you _must_ come back and share more of your writings,” Arin insisted. “You’ve a talent.” 

Sabina turned a becoming shade of pink.

“It is hardly that. But that I have anything to share is due to you. Thank you, my friend.”

Arin should have been happy and she was: her father was with her again, her friends were well, and she had a daughter she loved with a fierceness Arin never knew she could feel.

But the nights were still long. 

During the day she kept busy, but at night, alone in her bed, Arin tossed and turned. She missed Antony. And the longer the separation the more acute the sense of missing that pierced her belly. She had grown used to falling asleep to a body beside hers. She missed the heat of Antony’s hands on her body, the feeling of his mouth coaxing her into an exquisite desperation. She missed being held. She awoke empty and unfulfilled, weeping bitterly how much she could miss a man.

It was not as if she could escape his name. Stories and rumors abounded, many certainly embellished and exaggerated with every retelling. It was his name most uttered in Rome, even eclipsing that of Caesar’s. How he had managed to make the perilous crossing and land most of his fleet in Greece. How Pompey had nearly cornered him before he could join with Caesar’s army, but Antony had somehow evaded the trap set for him and Pompey had to flee lest he be pinned between two armies. How in every encounter, Antony assumed his command tirelessly. How he was the first to rush into battle, how it seemed like no blade or blow could catch him, how he fought with a laugh on his lips.

In Rome, there was no difference between one’s reputation and one’s moral character. With his glamorous reputation in the battlefield, even those who had considered Antony too crass, too vulgar sang his virtues.

No matter his skill, however, he was still very mortal. And no matter how ferocious his soldiers, Pompey had the advantage.

He pressed it one night, attacking a section of Caesar’s defensive wall. Vastly outnumbered, Caesar’s forces had broken. It would have been a rout—and almost certainly Caesar’s defeat—if not for Antony. Arin pored over the letter Lucius gave to her, sent to a friend of his. 

_The men were terrified. Running. Until the shout went up that General Antony had arrived. I know not which god has brought him under their favor, but with a voice that filled the night he commanded every man still breathing to rally to him. And if you will believe it, my friend, every man went to him. The fighting was ferocious and, by the time glorious Caesar arrived, every man there had been injured. But they held the wall and Pompey’s army was beaten back._

Neither she or Lucius knew what injury Antony took. His letters had become infrequent, then rare. The long stretches of silence threatened to drive her mad.

When word did come from other quarters it was never good.

In a civil war, there were no winners. Celebration and mourning went hand in hand. Brother faced brother. Fathers faced sons. The announcements read daily in the Forum were grim. 

Curio had been among those killed. He and his legion had been slain to the man packed together so tightly, the rumor said, they had remained standing in the field long after they were dead. Not long after, Gaius, brother to Antony and Lucius and charged with holding Illyricum, had been forced to march his legions south to Greece and joined Caesar’s army. Lucius called it an honor to serve the Republic, but she knew he feared receiving that most terrible letter. 

In the villa, she found Lucius well on the way to drunk.

“Come to stop me?” He held up his cup to her in a mockery of a toast.

Arin took a seat beside him. She stole his cup.

“I’m here to join you.” 

She downed what was left, grimacing faintly. He was not drinking watered wine as was the custom. Reaching for the jug, she topped off the cup and had a sip. Lucius threw back a hard swallow.

“I don’t have many memories of my father,” he confessed softly. “He was away and then he died. My stepfather, I remember. On the first day we moved into his house, he told us we would be as his own sons and he kept his word. And then he died too. Strangled in prison.”

Arin kept silent. Lucius studied some point only he could see.

“That was before I was to assume the toga of manhood. Wonderful omen. I was to become a man and both my fathers dead.” He smiled, a strangely serious smile that reminded her of Antony. “But I had my brother. When he was helping me wind my toga around me, he told me very gravely, ‘This is a dignified occasion.’ I nearly burst laughing right there.” 

“Ever fond of ceremony, is he not?” she commented archly.

“The pomp, he likes. The self-seriousness is what he can’t stand. He never cared much for what others thought. I would make a nuisance of myself following after him and his friends, but he was always there when I needed him.” 

Lucius looked far away. She guessed he was in his stepfather’s house again, his mother and older brother with him, as his elder brother guided him through the ceremony that would mark him as a man. Lucius swirled the wine in the cup.

“That was the first time I remember my mother smiling after our stepfather died.” 

Arin cupped her chin in hand. “What was she like?”

“Our mother was an oak. I’m still impressed she never smothered the three of us in our sleep.” He shook his head. “But grief, like a flood, has a way of flattening everything in its path.”

They lingered in silence for a moment. To her displeasure, she thought of Cassius’ parting words to her. _Ask Lucius for their mother’s name._ She tried to push it out of mind, but only succeeded in pushing it out of her mouth. 

“What was her name?”

“Julia.”

Arin stilled. 

Personal names were frustratingly few, repeated so often as to be confusing. It was what followed from a society that valued the family name. The first son bore his father’s name who in turn bore his father’s. Girls had less choice. Antonia for a daughter of the Antonii. Claudia for a daughter of the Claudii. Julia…

“Little wonder you’ve risen so high,” she ventured.

Lucius snorted. “We’re a distant relation. My mother may have been cousin to Julius Caesar, but that meant less than nothing when we were young and without prospects. He spoke in favor of my stepfather when my mother pleaded with him to, but he raised no other finger to help us after. The only reason my brother was elevated in Gaul was because he had already proven his worth in Judaea and Alexandria.” 

A heavy weight settled in her stomach. As if she did not have enough ties to Caesar. And her daughter…that her _daughter_ should be however tenuously linked to the man who had ordered the massacre of her tribe and the enslavement of her people…

Arin snatched the cup from Lucius again. She made a face at the strength of the drink, but swallowed it anyway.

“So?” he asked her once she had returned the cup to the table.

“What?”

Lucius was looking at her. Even with the loosening brought by the alcohol, his eyes were sharp.

“Did Cassius guess right? Is this the moment you break with my brother?”

She could feel the wine going to her head. Arin faced him boldly.

“You were too far to have heard what he said.”

“And you draw the eye everywhere you go,” he pointed out, “and people talk. So,” he repeated, “do you regret my brother’s company?”

“Do I regret taking him into my bed?” she translated. She was shaking her head before she even considered her answer. “I already knew he was loyal to Caesar. That was a greater reason to hate him than the accident of his mother’s birth.”

“Poor Cassius,” said Lucius without a trace of pity. “Missed the mark yet again.”

Head heavy, Arin lay back against the pillows. She studied Lucius’ profile. 

“You love Antony well.”

“He’s my brother. Of course, I do.”

“As is Gaius, but you don’t speak of him so often. Was Antony your favorite brother?”

Lucius chuckled.

“He was the less terrible. Gaius was never happy that I came along and stole our mother’s skirts.”

She smiled at the image. Then it was Lucius watching her. 

“Do you love my brother?”

Arin’s finger traced the rim of the cup. 

“I shouldn’t,” she admitted quietly. “But I have never been good at doing what I should.” 

Lucius poured the last of the wine and raised the cup toward her.

“To what we shouldn’t.”

As they settled back, the noise of the street outside the only noise to interrupt their silence, she wondered when she started to think of Lucius too when she thought of her brother.

* * *

The whole of Rome knew before the news was announced in the Forum. Outnumbered—Arin heard Pompey’s army had double the infantry and something like seven times the cavalry—Caesar’s forces had clashed with Pompey’s—and won. Pompey the Great had been defeated. Julius Caesar was triumphant.

In the hours and days that followed more details emerged many of them so incredible Arin put no stock in them. Even the numbers thrown around seemed doubtful to her, but everyone agreed Caesar had had only a part of Pompey’s forces. Yet Caesar had accomplished the impossible yet again. Offerings to Fortuna were surpassed only by those to Venus.

Yet it was not all celebration in Rome. With Pompey’s army broken, the question became _now what_. It had not been long ago that another man declared himself the undisputed master of Rome. The name was spoken in soft tones, such terror did the very mention of him still inspired. But it was to Sulla everyone’s thoughts turned.

Sulla too had marched into Rome with an army: the first Roman to do so. He too had gone east to put down a threat. And on his return, Sulla had washed the streets and walls of Rome with blood.

While Rome braced for the arrival of another Sulla, Arin awaited news of a different kind.

She was certain word from Antony would follow. It had been months without correspondence. As she watched Antonia on the floor giggling at Cirta and Artemis’ antics, Victus—ever vigilant as to his only grandchild—stretched out on the floor with her, Arin felt a pang. Antony should be here. Their daughter was _wonderful_ and he had already missed so much. Arin had continued to write him, but every day without an answer she questioned _why_.

A couple of weeks later, she felt a hand gently touch her shoulder.

“ _Domina_.”

Arin woke abruptly. Melissa stood beside the bed.

“A messenger, _domina_. He said he comes bearing a letter from Marc Antony.”

It was dark as pitch out. Arin rose hastily. In her crib, Antonia whimpered. At the sound, Cirta stirred too. He jumped onto the side of the crib and stroked the baby’s head to calm her. From the moment Arin brought the baby home, Cirta seemed to think himself another of Antonia’s caretakers. Often, the monkey was soothing her before Arin could.

“Stay with them,” Arin told Melissa who nodded. As she left the room, Arin saw the woman pick up the baby. Cirta hopped on Melissa’s shoulder, now petting Antonia’s hand.

The messenger stood dripping on her floors. He wore a ragged hooded cloak to keep the rain off. Beneath it peeked the crimson of a soldier. Her attention was taken from him when another servant handed her a scroll, blessedly dry. A shudder of relief went through her when she saw the seal in the wax: a man wearing a lion’s pelt. 

He was alive. The familiar bold hand filled the page. Antony wrote to tell her of what she already knew: Pompey’s forces had been defeated; Pompey himself had escaped; Caesar was pursuing him; and Antony was soon to return. 

So engrossed was she with the letter, she did not notice her tears—or the messenger’s approach until he touched her cheek.

“Are these tears for me?”

Arin’s head snapped up. The messenger pushed the hood off his head revealing Antony’s smiling face. 

“Have you missed me so, my love?”

Arin’s heart did not know whether to rise to her throat or drop to her stomach. 

“ _You_ —”

Antony caught her by the wrist before her slap could land on his cheek. He caught her other wrist too when she tried to strike his chest. He yanked her toward him, and then his mouth was on hers. Arin immediately rose on her tiptoes. Her hands spasmed shut over his cloak. 

They made it as far as the atrium. Next to the _impluvium_ , she finished tearing off his armor. Her tunic had long since been discarded. His hands bit into her hips hard enough that she knew she would sport bruises come morning, but she only arched her body further into his touch. When he finally joined his body to hers, tears stung her eyes and fell down her cheeks. He caught each drop, murmuring her name as he did, and her heart ached powerfully. She peaked in a paroxysm of relief and pleasure.

He dropped onto the floor beside her, both of them breathing heavily. Their bodies were slick with sweat, she could feel the warmth of his seed between her thighs, and she hated and marveled at in equal measure how _complete_ she felt in that moment.

Suddenly, he laughed. 

“What?”

He turned his head toward her with a sly grin.

“I should leave more often if this is my welcome.”

His dark hair had grown longer, the locks curling as his brother’s did. Arin snaked her hand into his hair and pulled. He winced and turned his body toward her. Only then, she saw the new scar glancing off his ribs. She traced it delicately. 

Antony covered her hand with his. “I opened his throat.”

She met his steady gaze.

“Good.” 

Her tunic was torn so Antony gave her his cloak. She wrapped the long and heavy garment around herself and twirled once for him when she was done. Smiling, Antony laid his hands against either side of her jaw and drew her into a long kiss.

A cry interrupted them.

Arin exhaled a laugh. “She’s awake.”

She looked back to see Antony had gone rigid, his expression raw. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought him afraid. Rising on her tiptoes, she pressed a kiss to his stubble-roughened cheek.

“Come. She’s waiting.”

Melissa was rocking Antonia and singing her a quiet lullaby when they entered the room. Arin took the baby from her, and Melissa quickly excused herself, taking Cirta with her. 

Antony was unmoving by the door, his eyes riveted on the baby whimpering against her shoulder. Jouncing Antonia gently, Arin crossed the room to him. He did not immediately react, and Arin thought he might step back instead. Antonia blinked up at him, her long dark lashes glistening with tears. When Antony laid a hand against the baby’s back, Antonia went into her father’s arms. He exhaled shakily as soon as he held her. A slow, radiant smile transformed his face.

The lay on the bed, Antonia on her father’s chest. Antony nosed and kissed her dark hair. Antonia’s little hand was wrapped tight around his finger. Arin pillowed her head on his shoulder, her fingers gently tracing the baby’s spine.

“What?” he asked her quietly so as not to disturb their daughter.

Arin could feel the smile stretching her cheeks, and it only grew wider. “Nothing. I’m…happy.” 

She swept a few curls away from his brow before laying a hand against his cheek. Antony kissed her palm.

“I told you I’d come back.”

His kiss was chaste, but she felt it pierce her through.

 _Let the world outside fret_ , she decided. The gods owed her this night.

The wind whispered through the trees, but the only word she could make out was _red, red, red._


	6. Humanitas

The Carinae on the southern spur of Esquiline hill was one of the more fashionable neighborhoods in Rome. It was named thus for a grouping of buildings whose shape resembled the keels of ships. To the southwest, it looked toward the Palatine hill dotted with villas, and peeking behind it, the Aventine and its brown collection of apartments. To the west rose the Capitoline and its gleaming temples to Juno, to Saturn, and, the grandest of all, to Jupiter. There was never any need in the Carinae to look down at the valley below to the notorious slums of the Suburra, separated from it by a long wall.

For those used to keeping their nose in the air, it was a perfect location. Many among the senatorial class chose to keep their homes in the Carinae—a less prestigious address than the Palatine, but still respectable for a man of means. And no resident of the Carinae had had greater means than Pompey as Arin had the privilege of witnessing.

Following news of his death, no one, _optimas_ or _popularis_ , had dared claim Pompey’s home for himself. None but Antony who promptly installed his mistress and child inside the villa. 

“I’ve been away from my daughter too long,” he said after telling Arin of his plans. 

They lay in bed together, Antonia between them. The baby chewed on a toy horse.

“I truly believe you hate my villa.”

He laughed. The hand that traced her jaw was tender.

“I hate being away from _you_.”

“No!” 

Antonia tossed her horse. Arin and Antony both laughed.

“And you, of course!” he promised Antonia.

He pressed a kiss to her belly. Giggling, Antonia clapped her hands on his cheeks. Arin smiled to see them. Antony spoiled their daughter terribly and, to Arin’s consternation, Antonia now rejected her mother’s embrace in favor of her father’s.

As unwilling to be parted from Antony as she was to separate Antonia from her father, Arin agreed. A few days later, Arin was in a litter headed into Rome, a wagon rolling behind her, and an entire retinue around her.

Antonia had been born in Rome, but she had not lived within its walls since. On her mother’s lap in the swaying litter, Antonia took in all the sights wide-eyed. 

Victus walked beside the litter, Syphax on the other side. Aetius was a little ways ahead. With Antony’s return, security had increased. Syphax had volunteered himself as her guard again. In addition, Antony appointed a handful of other guards, veterans all, under Aetius and Syphax’s command. If they disliked answering to a Greek and a Numidian, they voiced it out of her earshot. 

In addition to her own guards and servants, a military escort preceded them. The people pushed aside stopped to stare as their little caravan made its way past.

“I don’t like this,” Victus spoke quietly in Gaulish. It wasn’t the first time he said so.

“I don’t like being inside the walls anymore than you do,” she answered in the same language. 

“Not just the walls.” He shook his head. “It’s too much attention.”

“There’s no help for it. We’re in a new city.”

“Has Rome fallen?” His tone was dry.

She smiled faintly. “Perhaps it did. We just don’t see it.” 

Antony was waiting receive them. He wore a brilliant white toga bordered in purple. As soon as Antonia caught sight of him, she squealed in delight. Grinning, he took hold of her, then helped Arin from the litter. 

“Your new home.”

The house itself was not very large. In terms of size, Cassius’ villa on the Palatine put this one to shame. But in content Pompey’s house more than surpassed the rest. The heavy drapes alone, dyed a rich purple, could fetch their weight in silver. Then there were the wardrobes, the furniture, the tableware and the artwork left behind. The riches of decades of plunder. Even the pillars sweeping up to the roof had been robbed—taken from temples in Greece for Pompey to install in Jupiter’s temple and in his own home. The house was a testament to theft.

So when Antony decided to celebrate his new acquisition by throwing a housewarming fête and inviting each of his outrageous friends, Arin helped him raid the wardrobes for appropriate dress.

It was then that they discovered the item of single greatest value in the house.

From a handsome locked chest (Cirta helped her with opening the lid), Arin removed an old, red cloak, its color fading. She would have tossed it aside if not for the way Antony’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“I don’t believe it.”

“What?” 

She frowned at the cloak as if the answer was embroidered on it. Antony touched the material. A disbelieving grin grew ever wider on his face.

“This is Alexander’s cloak.”

There was only one Alexander that could refer to. Arin looked again to the heavy red fabric in her hands.

“How did Pompey come by his cloak?”

“The same way he did everything else. By taking it.”

“And he just…left it behind?”

“He must have thought he would be back for it soon. Wear it in another triumph carrying Caesar’s head.” 

He stood to try it on, Arin behind him. She helped him fix the cloak around his shoulders. Posing before a mirror, he smirked at her through the reflection.

“We shouldn’t disappoint.”

For the feast, Antony became Alexander. His hair brushed back in a quiff as Alexander (and Pompey’s imitation of him) had, clad in gleaming gold armor, Alexander’s cloak around his shoulders, and a gold laurel wreath on his head. All of it found among Pompey’s belongings. (“Did Pompey want to be Alexander or be fucked by him?” Arin wondered out loud. Antony nearly pissed himself laughing.) 

In keeping with the theme, Arin chose Roxana as her inspiration. The yellow damask sat beautifully against her dark olive coloring. Resting over her diadem and tied to the ring of a delicate handflower was a gauzy golden veil embroidered at the hems with myrtles in ivory thread. She was draped in more jewelry than a Roman woman was allowed to wear, but the man who would have enforced the law laid the rope of carnelians around her neck. 

They made their appearance only after all of the guests had arrived. She heard a few gasps and awed murmurs soon drawn out by cheers and whistles. Out the corner of her eye, she saw Lucius shaking his head with a laugh. Beside him was the last of the Antonius brothers: Gaius had returned from his posting only days before. He had the same dark brown eyes and curling hair as his brothers, but Gaius had a narrower, more angular face that gave him a plainer look than his elder brother and one less open than his younger brother’s. And he had the same impressive capacity to put away wine and food and retain enough clarity to argue battle tactics over supper.

While Antony welcomed everyone, Arin kept her expression composed, head held high. Her thumb stroked the side of his hand in gentle caress. When the food was served, Antony drew his sword and used it to cut the bread. He gave her the first piece, feeding her himself. 

They and their guests gorged themselves on rich food and better wine. Actors put on a mime: short, improvised scenes of a coarse humor. Pompey was a consistent point of mockery and soon his name could not be uttered without the guests dissolving in laughter. The goblets of wine that never emptied certainly played their part in keeping the atmosphere jovial.

Arin lay almost on Antony’s lap, one of her arms resting over his shoulders. She played idly with his hair. He had kept it long, the curls soft through her fingers. During a pause between scenes, she pressed a kiss to his temple.

“I’m going to check on the baby,” she whispered to him.

Antonia was in her crib, her ragged toy horse beside her. Bending, Arin brushed a kiss to the baby’s soft cheek. Cirta, who had been sitting in the crib with her, jumped on Arin’s shoulder. Arin caught him by the wrist before he could make off with her earrings.

“How has she been?” 

“Sleeping peacefully since you left,” Syphax informed her.

“The sleep of the innocent,” she said. “And what of you two?”

Syphax grinned. “I’ve been cleaning your father out.”

Victus grunted. Arin laughed as she came to stand beside them. They were playing _tali_. The pile in front of Syphax—made up of odds and ends from around the room including many of Antonia’s toys—was bigger. 

“Whose turn is it?”

“Victus. For all the good it will do him.”

“Let me throw one.”

Her father handed her the dice. Made from a goat’s knucklebones, each one had the numbers I, III, IV and VI etched onto their surface, one to each side. She shook them well and threw. 

The four dice all landed on a different side: a Venus throw.

Syphax learned forward in his seat. “How—”

Victus cackled. Arin smiled serenely.

“I spent the last weeks of my pregnancy playing nightly against Lucius. He’s more vicious than either of you.” 

“Who would have thought the runt is good at something,” Victus commented as he helped himself to several toys from Syphax’s pile.

Arin nudged him while Syphax visibly tried and failed to fight a smile.

On her return, she found Lucius himself speaking with a sandy-haired man with a hooked nose.

“—opportunists are crawling out of every hole in the city,” the man was saying. 

“Another day in Rome,” Lucius observed wryly.

“And plenty more to come,” the man continued in the same dry tone. “Caesar has taken to dispensing forgiveness as if handing out alms.”

“Arin!” Catching sight of her, Lucius waved to her. “Come join us! Do you know Lepidus?”

“I know of him, of course,” she said, kissing Lepidus politely in greeting. “Rome’s new praetor. Yours is a difficult task this year.”

“Difficult,” Lepidus agreed. “But an honor.”

It sounded like a phrase he had repeated nightly to himself until he could believe it. Arin did not blame him. The office of praetor was typically second in power only to the consuls. But there were no consuls or even elected praetors for the year; there had been no elections. Lepidus had been directly appointed by Caesar’s command and was only subordinate to the Master of the Horse: Antony himself.

On his return to Rome, one of Antony’s first moves had been persuading the people to name Caesar dictator for the entire year. His success was a testament as much to the power of his rhetoric as to how beloved he was among the populace. Frightened they may still be by the prospect of another Sulla—his ghost was rumored to be seen wandering the Campus Martius—but Antony was their hero. A plebeian, one of Rome’s finest soldiers, risen to right-hand man of Julius Caesar.

Antony stepped into the role of Master of the Horse, a position subordinate only to the dictator. Only Caesar could have named him thus, but with the Senate focused on the dictatorship’s unprecedented term—the office had previously been limited to a maximum of six months—no one protested Antony’s action.

No one could check him, either. The first time he convened the Senate following his return he had done so in the regalia reserved to generals on the day of their triumph: a toga dyed entirely purple and bordered in gold over a similar purple tunic embroidered with scenes of victory, a gold laurel wreath on his head. In public, he was preceded by six lictors, honor guards for magistrates with imperium, and he was also accompanied by a military bodyguard handpicked from his own soldiers.

And Arin held the place of honor by his side.

“And this, of course, is Arin,” Lucius finished his introductions. “Our very own princess of Gaul.”

“And now Alexander’s wife,” Lepidus guessed. “The stories tell us there was great love between Alexander and Roxana.”

Arin raised her eyebrows delicately. “Was there?”

Lepidus had not expected a confrontation. “You don’t believe there was?” 

Lucius hid his mouth behind his goblet.

“I believe Roxana was a young girl,” said Arin with a pleasant smile, “whose home had been taken by force and whose father still led a rebellion. Love may have been why Alexander defied his advisors to marry her. But love was not the reason she split bread with him.”

“I had not thought of it that way.”

“I imagine you had given it no thought. Rome has ever been Alexander. If you will excuse me.”

She bowed her head to Lepidus and Lucius—who was fighting a smile and would not look at her—and returned to Antony’s side. 

Parties could easily continue almost to dawn and that night was no different. By the time the carousing began to die down, the wine had loosened Arin’s limbs. Antony massaged her feet. Catching her eye, he kissed the top of her foot and set it down. Arin swung her legs to the floor. She had lost her sandals at some point, but she was long past caring when or where. Taking Antony’s arm, they both stood.

Antony raised his arms for attention.

“Thank you all for coming. You are, of course, welcome to stay and continue eating my food and drinking my wine. Unfortunately, I have the tiresome task tomorrow of…governing Rome.”

Laughter received him. Several came up to speak with Antony one last time, and finally they were on the way to their room.

In what had been Pompey Magnus’ bedroom, Arin helped Antony removed the armor. She picked up the belt from where he dropped it and drew the sword. It was about two feet long, lighter in her hand than she might have guessed, double-edged and pointed. The hilt was beautifully carved out of ivory. She looked back to find Antony watching her.

“Do you know how to use one of those?”

She smiled. “If I did, I would not have been caught.”

Coming up behind her, he wrapped his hand around hers on the hilt.

“You hold it like this,” he said, fixing her grip. His foot pushed hers until she stood with her legs further apart. He held her other hand before them, bent at the elbow, as if holding a shield. 

“Lead with the shield, then…” They stabbed the air before them. “Thrust.”

She leaned back against him, enjoying the feeling of the hard planes of his body against her back. “You would trust me with a blade?”

His mouth found a sensitive spot behind her ear.

“Had you meant to kill me, you would have already stabbed me in my sleep.”

She tilted her head to give him better access. Her earring felt cool and heavy where it lay against her neck.

“Perhaps I am biding my time.”

She broke abruptly from him, turning gracefully on her heel. The point of the _gladius_ was an inch from his chest. 

“At attention.”

He stiffened, body straight. Only his eyes defied her command: they never dropped from her face.

Arin let the sword fall to her side, but she did not let it go. She circled him slowly. It was so quiet she could hear the soft chiming of her jewelry as she moved. 

His was a beautiful body. She left her fingers drift over a bulging thigh, the muscle twitching under her her touch. She moved up to his hipbone and along the hard expanse of his back. From a broad shoulder she curled her hand through the dark hair at his nape before one finger followed the line of his arm down to his wrist and back up again. Her touch mapped the line of a scar along his ribs.

Antony lunged for her. His hand around her wrist twisted her arm behind her. The sword dropped with a heavy clang of metal. Her breath escaped her in a sharp exhale when he yanked her toward him.

Both her hands were trapped behind her back. His strength was such that, even with one hand holding her, she could not free her arms. The position drew her shoulders back and lifted her chest. It rose and fell with every short, quick breath. His eyes swept over her.

“Yield.”

His maddeningly even expression gave away nothing, but she could see the desire in his dark eyes. It set a slow thrill through her veins.

Leaning in slowly, she flicked the tip of her tongue against his upper lip. His lips reflexively parted beneath hers. When he tried to kiss her, she tilted her head back. Arin smiled.

“Why? The upper hand is still mine.”

Rome would go without governing.

* * *

“I have the worst fucking headache,” Antony grumbled into his pillow.

Seated on the bed, Arin regarded him without pity. “What do you expect when you and your friends drink your way through the entire wine stores in four days?”

Antony pushed himself on his elbows. 

“That was four days?” He scoffed in amusement. One arm over his eyes, he turned on his back. “Fuck me.”

“Not with a child present.”

That had him squinting at her until the meaning slipped through his hangover.

“How is the little princess?”

Arin shifted toward him. Antonia nursed at her breast. As soon as she caught sight of her father, she reached for him. Though she grabbed his hand, she did not release her mother. Chuckling, Antony kissed her tiny hand.

“Too good to stop, eh? I don’t blame you.” He dropped his voice to a stage whisper. “I didn’t want to either.”

Arin elbowed him. 

Exaggeratedly wincing, he rolled away from her and to a sitting position. He snapped his fingers at a nearby slave. 

“A drink.”

While Antony washed and dressed, Arin finished nursing the baby. She slid the sleeve of her tunic back over her shoulder. Antonia babbled at her father in Latin who bent to pick her up. 

“Oh, are we all fed? Are we happy now?”

Eros, another of Antony’s slaves, interrupted them. He bore the mail: letters, requests, questions, and proposals Antony received daily. Only a few days prior he had expressed his preference for the battlefield. 

“Swords cut less than paper.”

Eros lingered that morning. “ _Domine_ , Dolabella is here.” 

Antony looked up from the first scroll, annoyed. Antonia reached for it.

“What, again?”

The slave bobbed before him in a little bow.

“He says it is urgent.” 

Antony rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll see him.” 

He stood. When Arin reached for Antonia, Antony walked past her.

“Where are you going?”

Antony motioned before him. “I have a meeting. Did you not hear?”

She chased after him, stopping short of entering the room. In a long loose tunic, her hair unbound, she was not in a state to be seen. Antony settled himself on the ebony bench at the head of the room ignoring the looks he and the baby got. Antonia clutched the hem of her father’s tunic, her dark eyes large on her face. Father and daughter stared at the shocked man in front of them.

“ _Well?_ ” Antony demanded. “Get on with it, man.” 

“Yes, of course.” Dolabella straightened. “As you know, the matter of debts in Rome has become grave. There had been hope the war would be over by now, but the legions have not been recalled. And the crisis has only…it is only getting…”

Dolabella trailed off uncertainly. Antony had stopped paying attention. Antonia was fussing. She was now standing on her father’s lap, Antony holding her up as he soothed her. After a moment, he realized Dolabella was no longer speaking. He raised his eyes to the man.

“There’s a crisis, yes. Go on.”

“I have a bill,” Dolabella continued, a touch of bewilderment on his patrician features, “which I will present at the next Senate meeting regarding the matter of debt relief and I hope to count on your support.”

Antony raised an eyebrow.

“And how much debt,” he asked, kissing Antonia’s fingers, then her palm, “would you relieve?”

“Well…all of it.”

There was a pause. Antony laughed in his face. 

“You’re not serious.” 

Dolabella took a step forward. “The people of Rome are suffering! We must act. They are being crushed by—”

“Yes, yes. The suffering people of Rome.” Antony waved him off. He laid Antonia against his shoulder and passed a hand over her back. “I assume your proposition to cancel all debt has nothing to do with the creditors hounding _you_.”

Even at a distance, Arin saw Dolabella go red up to his ears. He swallowed tightly.

“I don’t know what you may have heard. But I can assure you—”

“That you didn’t arrange to be adopted by a plebeian family to stand for tribune and that your _first_ act in that capacity is to propose a bill that would wipe out _your_ debt?” Antony _tsk_ ed. “Leave that for your second motion, at least.”

Dolabella was getting heated. “As the newly elected Tribune of the Plebs—”

“We’ve all been Tribune of Plebs,” Antony interrupted him again, bored. 

Dolabella again moved forward, his voice rising. “You must understand this—”

“ _Must_ I?”

The soft silk of Antony’s voice stopped everyone in place: Dolabella on his approach; the guards moving to intervene; Arin about to enter the room to grab her daughter. Antony did not rise from his seat and his tone remained perfectly pleasant. But the glitter of his dark eyes held a promise of menace.

“There _is_ something I don’t understand. Craven rats who change sides like I change my boots. Perhaps you can help. Before going to your knees for Caesar’s forgiveness you hid behind the skirts of the former owner of this house. Now I am here and he is…well. That depends on which part.”

Dolabella’s face flamed. Arin watched his eyes flit from Antony to the guards flanking him to the doors.

Ever sensitive to the moods around her, Antonia began to cry. Antony dismissed the tribune with a wave of his hand. Before Dolabella had gone, Antony stood the baby in his lap. 

“Oh, there you are, my dove. That vile man is gone now, yes. Look, here’s your mother.”

Antonia reached for her with a whimper. Her little face found the crook of Arin’s shoulder. Arin passed a soothing hand over Antonia’s back.

“I’m surprised you didn’t take the chance to erase your own debts,” she observed drily. 

Antony grinned.

“They’ve been with me for years. No friend has been more constant.”

Bestowing kisses to her daughter’s soft hair, Arin ignored the comment.

“Is it not worth hearing him out? He may only care for himself, but he has a point about the people.”

Antony shook his head. “Caesar would not condone it.”

“You’ve heard from him?”

His pause gave her his answer before he could. Getting to his feet, Antony ventured back to their bedroom.

“Not yet.” He smiled ruefully. “But it’s no matter. Lepidus had already warned me about him. Dolabella had gone to him first and when Lepidus told him no—”

“He thought to go over his head. To you.”

“Lepidus is a joyless bastard, but he is loyal. Which is more than can be said for our new tribune.”

“How did he come to be tribune? If he had belonged to the Pompeian faction?”

“He was one a few who had a change of heart before Pharsalus. Seems Pompey wasn’t well-liked among his men. They thought he was enjoying himself too much, trying to drag the conflict out.”

“They didn’t understand why he did not use his superior numbers to simply crush you.” 

Antony’s smile told her she had the right of it.

“There was a point where he could have. We were on the retreat. No food. No more reinforcements. I never understood why he didn’t give chase.”

“Thank the gods for his lapse.”

Antony smirked. “Could it be that you prayed for Caesar’s victory?”

“I prayed for your return. Though now I wonder why,” she said with an arched eyebrow. “I seem to see even less of you.”

It was not much of an exaggeration. His hours grew fewer. Petitions came daily. The piles of correspondence only seemed to grow. To go out in public meant an ambush. Whether that was strolling through the Forum or attending the chariot races at the Circus Maximus, the task of running Rome never stopped. Near-absolute power consumed near-absolutely.

She found him at his desk one day, a jug of wine at his elbow, glaring at a document in his hand.

“Are you hoping it will catch fire?” she asked from the door.

He threw down the paper and his pen. “Why does anyone do this to themselves?”

He scrubbed at his face.

“Ambition. Want.” She came to stand behind him, draping her arms around his shoulders. She playfully nosed his cheek. “Stubbornness. Foolishness.”

Smiling, he passed a hand over her arm.

“And I’m the biggest fool of all.”

She nuzzled him quietly, feeling his body relax under her touch. “Can I help?”

“To burn it all?”

“To sort through it. You forget, I am a courtesan.”

“I assure you,” he said drily, “with how much Lena charges me, I cannot.”

She took a letter from the pile and opened it. He did not stop her.

“And as it turns out,” she continued idly as if she had not heard him, “women and barbarians both can learn to read and to write.”

She took the pen from him too and made a small annotation.

“What’s this?”

“You can hand this off. Lucius. He’s a quaestor. Might even distract him from badgering my father.”

“I don’t know. Being knocked flat might do him some good.”

She nudged him. 

The odd, needling relationship that existed between her father and Antony’s brother was not one Arin pretended to understand. It worked for them, and that was enough. Were they to fight, she knew Victus would easily emerge triumphant. But if he ever did raise a hand to his patron he must then face Antony—and that was a match from which they were unlikely to both emerge alive.

For the next few hours, they continued working together. Arin handed him the most important pieces, summarized the rest, and set aside those better delegated. Antony took great pleasure in answering the orator Cicero who had recently returned; Rome was unsafe, Antony wrote, and Cicero's safety could not be assured―best remain in _Brundisium_. He sealed the letter shut with great flourish.

By the time they neared the end she wanted to cheer. Antony didn’t restrain himself. He raised his arms above his head letting out an echoing, triumphant, “Ha!”

Laughing, she picked up another notice. Her laughter trailed off.

“Is this true? Are Rome’s coffers empty?”

His mouth pressed into a thin line as he took the scroll from her.

“Near to it. Wars are costly things.”

Arin frowned. “But—the treasury gold?”

“Taken and spent. Saturn’s temple has been stripped of everything except his statues. Those might soon follow.” 

“And you would start a riot.”

“Why? Does Saturn live in gold?”

Arin looked at the paper again. Little wonder Antony and Lepidus both refused to entertain the proposal to eliminate debts. And why neither had given reason beyond “Caesar would not agree.” Rome stood on a knife’s edge. If the people were to learn the state had no money… 

As Arin was generally the first to wake, she took to spending her mornings sorting through Antony’s daily briefings for him. By the third morning, Eros brought the correspondence directly to her. With Antonia seated at her feet wielding her favorite toy horse like a club at Artemis’ nose, Arin sifted through accounts and proposals, records and news. 

She discovered where Rome was getting its current influx of gold and silver: the confiscation of land and assets of men who had fought for Pompey and refused to surrender. The funds from their sale went toward refilling the city’s coffers. Trying to keep track of it all was tedious work—especially when dependent on often suspect reports—and she quickly understood why Antony always looked like he would rather fall on his sword.

She had her own petitioners too. As had been the case in Italia and Cisalpine Gaul, many approached her, hoping she might intercede on their behalf with Antony. There were as many too who commented on how inappropriate it was for a man of Antony’s stature to openly keep a Gallic courtesan for a concubine. Arin smiled imagining their indignation should they know she was also privy to many of Rome’s secrets.

Antonia was playing with one of her mother’s necklaces when the sound of her babbling changed. With Antony and most of the household, Antonia’s intonation—and her still limited vocabulary—was unmistakably Latin. But when she was alone with her mother and especially her grandfather, the sound shifted to Gaulish. She had even surprised Arin by asking Syphax to pick her up in Numidian.

“She really only said ‘up’,” he had explained, Antonia at his shoulder happy with her much improved vantage point. He had grinned at the baby, amused. “But she says a lot with just one word.”

Arin looked up to find Victus bending to greet his granddaughter. Antonia happily clamored for him.

“Where’s that Roman of yours?” he said, catching Antonia’s wrist before she could grab his beard.

Arin returned to her notes. “Sleeping.”

“Still?”

“We were at a wedding yesterday. I doubt he’ll be up before noon.” 

“Ah, so he can take you to a wedding.”

She looked up, eyes narrowing. “Father…”

Arin readied herself for a rehashing of their most repeated argument, but Victus, thankfully, avoided it. 

“Is he going to keep leaving all the work to you?”

“I took this on myself. I like to know what is happening.” 

Setting the pen down, Arin leaned back in her seat. Victus pulled the paper she had been writing toward him. She watched his eyes roam the words. Words that she knew he could not read. 

“I could teach you, Father.”

He had already rejected the offer before, and he rejected it again.

“They’ve already made me speak like them and dress like them. That’s enough.”

Arin bit her lip. Where she had adapted, visibly emulating her captors while holding her hate and her hopes secret, her father refused to be anything but a Gaul. He took pride in the strong Gaulish accent with which he spoke Latin. He scoffed at the Roman custom of lying down to eat. At nights, Arin often overheard him telling Antonia stories of Gaul, of their tribe, of their family.

She admired him for it, and she feared for him too. 

Victus returned the page to her, and passed Antonia over too when she stretched her little arms out for her mother. Arin kissed the baby’s hair. Victus smiled at them.

“You remind me of your mother.” 

Arin smiled, pleased, though she did not know what had brought it on. 

“This is the hardly the work of the goddess I’m doing.”

“But here you are in a new land, able to hold your head up in any crowd. The gods tested you, as they tested your mother.” 

“Mother went willingly to Gaul,” Arin reminded him.

“Which is why Delphinia would be the first to say you are stronger than either of us.”

Arin laughed. She looked down at her daughter’s face. There was more of Antonia’s father in the baby’s look, but Arin could see traits belonging to her family. That was her nose. And Delphinia’s thick, black hair. She even found her brother in Antonia’s willful temper.

“I know Mother lives. I know it.” Arin let out a heavy breath. “It’s Cingerix I know nothing of. I keep hoping…” 

Her father laid a hand on her shoulder.

“We found each other,” he said, voice heavy with emotion. “We will find your mother and your brother.” 

Arin closed her eyes, allowing him to hug her against his side like a child. 

She used to dream of adventures. She should have been more careful.

* * *

One of the artists under Arin’s patronage was an ivory engraver and painter named Marcia who had learned the arts from her father. She was a gifted portraitist, but had mentioned wanting new challenges. Arin persuaded Antony to give to her the commission to redecorate Pompey’s house. Marcia and her team began the task of transforming the walls. Soon, she was the talk of Rome not just for her skill, but for the speed with which she completed projects.

When Arin asked her about it, Marcia laughed.

“I’m a woman. I must work twice as fast as every man if I am to compete.” Marcia raised her eyes from her sketch with a smirk. “It helps that I happen to be better. Now, if you would raise your chin a little more… There. Hold.”

Arin acquired a new title: model. Under Marcia’s brush, she was Diana running with a bow in hand in the forests that had sprung up along the walls of the _peristylium_ , her greyhound Artemis immortalized beside her. She was Venus facing out from the wall where Antony had his meetings, Antony-Mars looking at her, his hand over her heart. Antonia’s dark eyes and ringlets were recognizable on Cupid flying next to them. 

This next fresco would go on the bath’s eastern wall, but Arin modeled in one of the bedrooms where Marcia had declared the light to be best. A string of pearls held back her hair. Two ropes of them lay against her bare chest. Raw Egyptian silks dyed different shades of blue and green covered her legs. On her lap, she held a black-and-white baby goat. As she became Salacia, Neptune’s consort, the goat would see a similar transformation into a hippocampus. 

Antonia held onto her mother’s knee, petting the goat as she would Artemis. Only whereas Artemis had long ago resigned herself to being another toy for Antonia to do with as she wanted, the goat refused to share the dog’s fate. Arin had to keep an eye—and the occasional firm hold—on both girl and animal.

Marcia was of no help. Arin was positive the painter was laughing behind her sketch. It was almost a relief when Melissa interrupted them.

“ _Domina_ , Sabina is here.”

“Are we finished?” Arin asked of Marcia.

“For the most part. I can continue in my studio.” 

Melissa helped Arin don a shawl to cover her nakedness, then let Sabina into the room. Despite Arin's modesty being newly preserved, she remained underdressed. Sabina’s cheeks colored.

“Oh!” She looked from Arin to Marcia. “Are you being painted?”

Arin continued to look forward, head held up regally. “I am to be a goddess.”

“You are certainly a fitting model.” Glancing again at Marcia, Sabina frowned. “Forgive me, but…we’ve met, have we not?”

Marcia looked up.

“Last month. Your poem to Daphne. I had never heard one after her metamorphosis. Always the chase.”

Sabina nodded as recognition came into her eyes.

“The chase never interested me. But her choosing her fate… The paradox of finding her freedom—”

“—Even as she was rooted to the earth.” Marcia was smiling. “I have not been able to get the image out of mind. Which means I _must_ paint it.”

“Perhaps Sabina can model for you,” Arin suggested innocently.

“Oh. I don’t think I could—” 

“Why not?” 

Marcia had now turned her critical gaze on Sabina. Arin knew what it felt like. At the very start of their sessions, Marcia had simply stared at her with an intensity that made Arin feel like the woman could peer past the face and into the soul.

Marcia shrugged one shoulder. “You are as beautiful as any nymph. With leaves in your hair and vines around your arms…”

Sabina’s whole face had turned red. Arin laughed. By the time Marcia had organized her things and taken her leave, Sabina was still pink.

“I’m so embarrassed.”

Arin donned a look of innocent surprise. “How so? You heard her. You can be a nymph.”

Sabina shook her head as she took a seat nearby. “It does seem very…glamorous.”

“It’s less glamorous than it looks, I assure you.” Arin carefully lifted the goat from her lap. “I mostly sit. And try to keep this one entertained.”

Arin set the baby goat on the floor next to Antonia. Antonia hugged it by the neck; the animal bleated.

Sabina laughed. 

“Is she also a model?”

“Mm. And a far more adventurous one. She has already had wings. Next, she will trade her legs for a fish’s tail.”

“You always have an adventure.” Sabina smiled wistfully. 

Arin fixed the shawl safely around her. “I thought you were off having one of your own. You haven’t been to visit.”

“I’ve been spending more time at my cousin’s house. He married again. His new wife, Junia, is lovely.”

“Are you next? That’s why you’re here. To escape the talk of suitors.”

Sabina shook her head again with a little smile.

“To escape the talk of politics, which is not _quite_ as dull. Much talk of debts.” 

Arin’s eyes widened slightly. “That must have been some wedding. I wasn’t aware Cassius was in debt.”

“He’s not,” Sabina clarified. “He’s been meeting with the tribune.”

“So Dolabella seeks Cassius’ support?”

Sabina frowned uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand the situation well. I know that Cassius and Antony are still on opposing sides and…I do not wish to betray my cousin’s confidence.”

“Of course not. Nor would I ask you to.” Arin clasped Sabina’s hands in hers. “I know what family means.”

The line of Sabina’s shoulders relaxed.

“Let’s focus on what’s important,” Arin continued. “Like what you will wear when you’re painted.”

Sabina covered her face with her hands. “Absolutely not!”

While Arin tried to bring Sabina’s hands down, her mind continued to turn over that information. Even with Cassius’ support, Dolabella was unlikely to get his bill off the ground. The majority of the Senate was loyal to—or terrified of—Caesar. Alone, neither had the power to act. Together…they would not fare any better. 

No matter how the few fought, the power in Rome had irrevocably shifted. She had fallen; without swords, without spears.

* * *

It had been months without word from Caesar. Of the situation in Alexandria, Rome received only the barest word. That Caesar was alive was known only for the lack of outcry his death would have provoked.

In his absence, a difficult situation had turned perilous. Those who had not surrendered to Caesar at Pharsalus had reappeared in Africa where the king of Numidia offered protection and arms. In Asia, one of the few Eastern kings who had not declared for either Pompey or Caesar seized advantage of the chaos to invade. There were rumors that Pompey’s remaining legions in Hispania were slowly reorganizing with the aim to either join the army in Numidia or follow Hannibal’s path into Italia. Two separate anti-Caesarian rebellions arose in the Italian countryside and were quickly crushed. Many of the leaders had been killed in the fighting, including two former tribunes. The survivors were crucified.

But the problem child, as always, was Rome.

As if the normal problems of the city were not enough, Dolabella had decided to go among the people to drum up enthusiasm for his proposal directly. Almost daily, he was giving impassioned speeches before ever growing crowds. The matter of debts flashed into the issue of the day. But Antony and Lepidus, and the Senate behind them, remained unyielding.

Even as they agreed on one point, the resentment of the senators and magistrates toward Antony only grew. Not that he gave them reason to like him. He convened Senate at his pleasure. Any law that might prove a threat to Caesar was immediately struck down. The old complaints—quieted during his impressive turn in Greece—crept up again. He had no respect. He was vulgar. Someone sneered that Antony would soon appear to the Senate wearing only a lion pelt. When the comment was made known to him, Antony smiled. That evening he sent his slave, Eros, to inquire as to the presence of trained lions in the city.

When the Senate next convened, Antony rode a golden chariot pulled by two lions to the meeting. He himself was garbed in gleaming, gold armor, a purple mantle fastened around his shoulders. He took a circuitous route through Rome, his lictors struggling to keep ahead of him and clear the way. Men and women came to the doors and windows to catch sight of him. Children chased his chariot through the streets. Armored and armed he sat in that day’s proceedings with his guards around him and lions napping just outside the doors.

No objections were raised that day. 

If the common people had loved him before, his feats during the war secured their adoration. And his behavior now only further endeared him to them. He was a character: dashing, courageous, virile. The epitome of the Roman man. When he went amongst them, they chanted his name like he was Hercules returned.

But Dolabella, no matter how self-serving, was right: the weight of debt was crushing them. And with no word from Caesar, there was no end to the war. 

Rome was a tinderbox. And then the flame was struck.

Arin and Antony were roused early one morning. Dressing quickly, she followed Antony out to the entrance where Lepidus and a handful of senators waited. Mud spattered Lepidus’ toga.

“Dolabella,” he said without prompting. “He has seized the Forum.”

“A mob.” One of the senators dabbed at his forehead, his face red. “Not since Clodius lived have I seen anything like this.” 

“He’s trying to force through the bill.” Lepidus handed Antony a scroll. “Senators have been chased back into their homes or outright attacked.”

Antony began to unroll the paper. “What is this?”

“Authorization from the Senate to restore the order. By any means necessary.”

Antony scanned the contents before nodding. 

“Fetch my armor,” he commanded of Eros. “And send word to the Thirteenth. Every man is to be ready to march on my arrival.”

“What will you do?” Arin followed him into their bedroom.

“I’m going to remind them, as good Roman citizens, where their loyalties lie. And if I must make an example of one or ten, so be it.”

She watched, a pit of unease in her stomach, as he tugged his tunic over his head and donned the crimson tunic of his uniform. Over it, the various pieces of his armor were fitted in place. All too quickly he was dressed and heading for the street. Arin followed him as far as the door. When the sound of marching footsteps was gone, she motioned for the doors to be shut. 

“What’s happening?” Her father stood beside her.

“Nothing good. Bar all the windows and doors,” she ordered the servants. “No one is to leave.”

A few hours after Antony had gone, Arin heard Antonia cry. Melissa carried the frightened girl. 

“I’m sorry, _domina_. She won’t stop crying.”

“It’s all right,” Arin assured the woman. She took Antonia in her arms. “What’s wrong, my sweet?”

Antonia pressed herself tight to her mother, her hands gripping Arin’s tunic.

“Papa,” Antonia sobbed.

“Papa’s coming,” Arin promised her. “He’ll be back soon.”

But Antonia would not be consoled. Not Arin, not Victus, not even Syphax who could generally get her to laugh were able to soothe her. Arin took to walking in circles around the atrium hoping Antonia would calm. The little girl’s distress passed to her. A ball of nerves narrowed painfully in her belly.

Then they heard the shouting. Far away, but unmistakable. The guards were all assembled by the heavy doors, naked steel in their hands. Arin tightened her hold on her daughter. Antonia’s face was hot from tears.

Something fell behind her into the _impluvium_. Arin jumped. Antonia screamed.

“What is that?” Arin demanded. 

The servants and slaves had all scrambled back. Syphax edged toward the shallow pool, keeping a wary eye on the opening above him. He fished out a long piece of wood, blackened at one end.

“Torches?” Open-mouthed, Arin stared from the torch to the ceiling, to the door and the sounds filtering through it. “They’re throwing _torches_ into my house?!”

A rock splashed into the pool. Syphax shoved her and Antonia against the wall.

“Stay down! You two!” He commanded a pair of guards nearby. “Keep watch in the _peristylium_.”

The guards ran past. Arin gaped.

“The _peristylium_?”

“I doubt anyone could climb high enough to break in that way,” Syphax said grimly, “but I won’t take chances.”

Aetius was by the doors, sword in hand. Victus had joined him. Her guard carefully unlatched the peekhole to look through it. He shut it again quickly.

“I counted six. Unarmed except for rocks.”

Victus spat. “It’s been a while since I’ve killed a Roman.”

“No,” Arin ordered. “The walls will hold. Have the windows and doors double-checked. We’re staying here. Antony will return soon.” 

Antony did not return until night had fallen. 

Arin was sitting on the floor, Artemis’ head in her lap. She raised her eyes to those around her. Antonia slept in her grandfather’s arms. She had finally cried herself into an exhausted slumber. Before the household shrine, Melissa and a few others knelt before the fire and kept up a near constant stream of prayers to Vesta. Syphax lingered inside the door, hand on the hilt of his sword. Cirta clung to his shoulder.

A shout from outside had everyone straightening in alarm. Aetius checked the peekhole.

“General Antony is returning!”

He and Syphax removed the heavy bar from the doors. Antony stormed through them, more men behind him. Arin identified Lucius and Lepidus among the group. 

Lucius’ toga was filthy and his left eye was swollen from a scratch above it. Lepidus had blood down his toga and on his sleeve. Arin swallowed heavily.

“Fetch them wine and food,” she ordered a nearby servant. To Aetius, she said, “Keep the doors barred.”

He bowed to her. “Yes, _domina_.”

Antony had led the way to the room where he received his callers, the room where he had met with Dolabella a few months ago. Only Lucius and Lepidus had followed him. Arin went to Antony’s side.

“What happened?”

Under the brighter light, she saw his armor was blood-stained too. Where she touched him, it came off the metal in rust-colored flakes.

Antony’s mouth twisted.

“They were ordered to leave the Forum. They refused. Attacked my men.”

“Attacked? With what?”

“The bastards brought weapons across the _pomerium_.” Lucius was pressing a damp cloth to his brow. “They were ready for a fight.”

Arin noticed one conspicuous absence. “Gaius?” 

“Still at the Forum. Some fled. He’s organizing the search.” 

“As of now, the city is under curfew,” Lepidus continued while Lucius drained his wine. “Anyone out after dark will be subject to summary judgment. What instigators escaped will be hunted down and thrown from the Tarpeian rock.”

He was nursing a cup of wine given to him by a slave. Lucius had his refilled. Arin looked from their grim expressions to the blood on their clothes.

“How many dead?” she finally asked.

Lepidus was the only one who looked at her. “We don’t have a count yet. The Forum’s full of bodies.”

Arin drew in a sharp breath.

“Has Dolabella been arrested?”

Lepidus looked at her as if she had grown a second head. “Unfortunately, he is a tribune. His person is sacrosanct.”

“And he incited violence against the Senate! Surely that violates his terms as tribune. The Senate can’t—” 

“The Senate?” Antony finally spoke. His eyes flashed. “The Senate has already washed their hands of it.” He rounded on Lepidus. “They would pin all of the blame on me.”

Lepidus remained impassive in the face of Antony’s fury. “It was not I who disavowed you.”

“But you still benefit,” Antony snarled. “You come to my door telling me I have authorization to act. Now, I am the heavy-handed brute while you pretend a toga won’t show blood!”

The goblet he held crashed into the wall. Wine spattered the wall.

Antony shook his head.

“I don’t understand how he planned this. That headless cock? Someone helped him.”

Arin had a terrible feeling she knew. When she raised her head, Lepidus was facing Antony, but Lucius was narrowing his eyes at her.

When she stepped outside to fetch more wine herself, Lucius caught her elbow.

“What do you know?”

Arin looked pointedly at his hand on her arm, then up at him. Lucius let her go.

“I know less than you do.”

“Then what is it you suspect?” 

Arin exhaled through parted lips. “I can’t be sure. But I think this was Cassius’ doing.” 

Lucius frowned. “What proof do you have?”

“Only a feeling.” She turned her head toward him again. “Which is why I said nothing. A feeling is not enough to start a war in Rome.” 

Lucius laughed hollowly. 

“Then you don’t know Rome.” He studied her face. “How did you come to this feeling?”

“A friend.” 

Arin refused to mention Sabina’s name. Lucius’ jaw tightened.

“Fine. Keep your secret.” He looked to the ceiling as if praying for endurance. “This situation is fucked enough without Rome finishing tearing itself apart.”

Arin continued on her way. Before she got far, she heard him call her name. His expression was unreadable.

“I love you well. Almost as a sister.… But I love my brother more.”

Arin did not begrudge him his meaning. Made to choose between her daughter or her father and Rome, Arin would gladly set fire to all seven hills.

In their bedroom, she found Antony. Most of his armor lay around him. Eros was gathering the pieces to clean them.

“Leave us.”

Bowing his head, Eros finished picking up the armor and retreated quietly. Arin stepped to the basin of clean water on a table and brought it over to the bed. Dipping a soft towel in the water, she passed it over his face and neck. He remained compliant until she began to clean his hands. Long fingers closed around her wrist. He traced a thick stain left on her tunic from where the torch had touched her when Syphax shielded her.

“What’s this from?”

“Some of the mob came here. Threw a torch inside.” 

Antony’s eyes darkened.

“They’ll be found. I promise you.”

“Aetius got a look at them.” Arin lifted her chin, mouth pressed into a slender line. “I would see them flayed.”

“And you will.”

Antony passed a hand over his face. He looked away, his jaw set.

“I’m going to kill him,” he vowed. “I’m going to ruin him, then I’ll kill him. How did I not see this?”

“You made a mistake.” 

Antony’s eyes flashed, but Arin pressed on. “You were forced to act. And once you did, you could not employ half-measures. That it was the only choice does not make it less a mistake. And there is no undoing it.”

Antony jerked away from her. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you can’t afford to forget it.” If this proved difficult for him to hear, so be it. The time for sweet words was long past. “You’ve been resting on laurels waiting for word from Caesar. It has been _months_. You cannot continue to rule according to the unknown desires of a man across the sea. He is not in command here. _You_ are the Master of the Horse. _You_ must be Rome’s master.”

Antony was silent. Arin waited, heart pounding, for his response. She had never confronted him as directly; she had never so openly urged his rejection of Caesar. She knew he loved her…but what was one woman’s love compared to a decade under Julius Caesar’s patronage? Everything that he was and everything that he had been—he owed it all to Caesar.

When he finally faced her, Arin forced herself not to look away. 

His fingers curled under her chin, lifting her face further. His thumb dragged over her bottom lip.

“If I had a hundred men like you, I could conquer any lands I chose.”

The corner of his mouth turned upward. She let out the breath she had been holding in a little huff.

“Would you also take one to warm your bed?”

“Only if I didn’t have you.”

Smiling despite herself, she pressed herself to him. The kiss had a ragged edge. His hands spasmed shut around her tunic and in her hair. Arin hid her face against his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin.

“I feared the worst.”

He pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder, another closer to her collarbone. 

“I will only die in the arms of a woman. I’ve seen it. Clear as day in the flight of birds.”

Straightening, Arin laid her hands on either side of his face.

“Then those won’t be mine,” she promised. “Because I need you.” 

His expression was as soft, as _vulnerable_ as she had ever seen it. Clasping her hands, he drew them down his face to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, her palm. Heads bowed, they held one another.

It was almost morning by the time they finally went to bed, Antonia between them. The toddler was curled into her father’s shoulder. Since waking to find Antony had returned, she would not be parted from him. Arin remained wide awake, staring at the gilded ceiling. She could not get the thought of the Forum strewn with bodies out of her mind. When she closed her eyes, the dead wore furs and blue paint. 

Giving up on any hope of sleep, she carefully rose from the bed. She padded outside to the _peristylium_. A guard nodded to her as she passed him. She sat with her back against one of the stolen marble pillars, her feet tucked under the long skirt of her tunic. The Morning Star shone brightly just above the roof. 

In her home, there was relief. But in countless homes around Rome the air would be rent with the sounds of wailing. Dolabella who thought to strong-arm the Senate into ceding to his demands; the men who snuck swords across the _pomerium_ in defiance of the gods; the Senate who had always considered the plebeians a mob and reacted as such; Antony who responded to force with force. All of them bore responsibility.

Antony had done well during his first tenure as deputy. Acted in Caesar’s name on Caesar’s command. They had visited every port to make sure more people and resources did not escape to Pompey. They had gone north to deliver the news of Caesar’s new law to bind more people to his cause. 

Caesar had given the orders; Antony had perfectly executed them.

That was then. No letters came now. No requests, no commands. Pompey was dead, the war was not over, Roman ambition refused to die, and from Caesar there was only silence. And in the confusion, Rome was her own deadliest enemy.

Could someone have manipulated the events? Antony was convinced of it, and there was only one name Arin thought of. Cassius could have advised Dolabella on what to do—appeal to the common people directly, fire them up. He had seen it before, after all; it was Antony’s favorite trick. The Senate’s response to outcry from the plebeians had always been to silence it. And the only one with the power to enforce the Senate’s decisions was Antony.

“Why” was easily answered: to erode Antony’s support among the common people. He had sole _imperium_ for as long as Caesar remained out of Rome. But the support of the common people was what made him near-untouchable. To go against him was to go against Rome.

The only thing she could not wrap her head around was Cassius knowingly endangering the lives of Rome’s people. Yes, he was angry. Yes, he hated Antony and Caesar. But surely not even he was capable of planning the events at the Forum. She remembered the way he spoke of the rout at Carrhae. For all his faults (and Arin could list _many_ ), he loved Rome.

She returned her eyes to the sky. All she knew with certainty was that the specter of Sulla would be spotted inside the walls tonight.

A wet nose at her elbow drew her from her thoughts. Arin turned her head to find Artemis curling up beside her. Smiling faintly, she draped her arm over the greyhound’s slender body. Together, they watched the sky change color: from deepest navy to violet to the first yellow-orange tinges. Arin scratched the dog behind her silken ears.

“A new day.”

The gods alone knew what kind.

* * *

In the days that followed, the instigators that had escaped were rounded up. Disguised as slaves or hiding in wagons headed outside the city, they were discovered or betrayed. Each man was arrested, convicted, and, one sunny afternoon, flung from the cliff.

Gathered with the others on the Forum below, Arin could not see the bodies land, but she heard them. The fine hairs on her arms stood on end though whether from the executions or from standing in the Forum she did not know. Slaves had been set to work scrubbing every stone. Even so, the familiar stench of rotten blood assaulted her. Arin did not know if she was smelling it in truth or if it was only the memory of it.

She spotted Cassius in the crowd, watching without a word. When the first man fell, his expression hardened.

As Lepidus promised, martial law was imposed on the city. The army was encamped in the Campus Martius. Except for the day of the executions, no crowds were permitted to gather. When Arin returned to the _scholae_ it was to hear the complaints of the courtesans whose livelihoods were affected.

She did not dare visit Sabina.

Since the massacre in the Forum, Antony was different. He came to bed later and slept most of the day. When he was awake, he typically had a jug of wine at hand. He showed up late to Senate meetings and, during one occasion, stood to speak and instead was violently sick.

Arin was not the only one worried. Lucius and Gaius both spent so much time in the villa on the Carinae it seemed they had moved in, as well. The three brothers would spend hours behind locked doors, sometimes with one or another of their friends. She was not invited. Whatever it was that the Antonii were planning Arin would not be party to it.

With the return of spring, the Senate received word that the siege of Alexandria had ended. Yet for weeks Caesar lingered in Egypt. There was talk of bewitchment and dark arts. Arin suspected a simpler ailment: the queen of Egypt was twenty-two-years old, married to a little boy, and pregnant with a child known not to be her brother-husband’s.

Antony defended Caesar’s actions, claiming that Caesar did not tarry “out of voluptuousness.” It was a strange defense for Antony of all men to take up, but they lived in strange times. Antony had restored order, but not peace. Rome waited with bated breath.

When Caesar finally returned to Italia via Asia almost two months later, Antony rode out to meet him. No general could enter Rome without disbanding his army first and, despite that being more of a suggestion now, he was still pretending to uphold the rule of law. 

Arin tried to persuade Antony to bring her along.

“So that you can stab him?” His question was wryly amused.

“So that I can be with _you_. He had you for the better part of a year,” she pointed out. “It’s my turn.”

But Antony held fast. When it was time to go, he had to pry Antonia’s hands off him and she only ceased crying when he removed a ring from his hand and gave it to her. 

He returned to Rome about a week later, sullen and disgraced. Removed from all elected position. Stripped of his military command. Lepidus replaced him as the new Master of the Horse. He had been a quaestor, giving him a lifetime position in the Senate. And he was still an augur; only death could revoke his place in the college. 

But for the first time in a decade, Marc Antony was yet another private citizen.

* * *

A solemn Lena greeted Arin inside the _scholae_ doors. Once they were settled on the couches and the servants had laid out a simple meal, Lena set her wine on the table.

“Your arrangement is ended,” she stated.

Arin knew. For most of his life, Antony had been living in debt. As a young man, he had gone to Greece ostensibly to undertake studies in philosophy and rhetoric; in truth, he had fled overseas to escape his creditors. But he no longer had a military campaign to escape to or had the backing of Caesar to secure further loans. As a final insult, Antony had to be seen to pay for Pompey’s house and everything inside it.

Overnight, Arin was out of his price range.

“Are you telling me to end the relationship?”

Lena sighed.

“I can’t tell you what to do in your free hours. But it might be wise for you to distance yourself. I know this isn’t what you want to hear,” she added, straightening, when Arin began to shake her head, “but you must face facts. Antony no longer wields the influence he once did. He has made many enemies. He will drag you down too if you’re not careful.”

Arin bit the inside of her lip until she tasted iron. “Can’t you charge him a lower price?” 

“You ensured I cannot.” Lena regarded her pointedly. “Your prestige eclipses even mine during my days as a courtesan. You are the talk of Rome. Now more than ever. Men will beggar themselves for an hour of your time.”

“I don’t want other men.”

Looking away, Arin dashed at her sudden tears. Dragging in a deep breath, she turned her sights to the ceiling until she regained control.

Lena waited.

“You think I don’t know what you’re feeling,” she said quietly. “You’re not the first courtesan to have come to love her patron, and you will not be the last.

“My Antony was not so different from yours. A commander blessed by fortune. Always ready with a jape and with a deep appreciation for drink and a good time. Only where Antony is dark, Felix had the bluest eyes and hair so yellow when the light struck it looked red.”

Arin slowly pushed herself up.

“When did you retire?”

Lena smiled. “The year 676 _ab urbe condita_.”

“Sulla?” Arin’s mouth had dropped open. “You warned me about catching Antony’s attention attention when you had _Sulla’s_?”

“It is _because_ I had Sulla’s that I warned you about Antony,” Lena answered calmly. “Men like Antony, like Sulla…they’re a double-edged sword. If you are deft, you can wield them to untold influence. But at any moment they can cut you just as well.”

Arin looked at her with new eyes. Lena had to be near sixty, but she was still as comely as ever. Neither her skin (unmarked yet by a single wrinkle) or her hair (still black as pitch) showed her age. She had survived both of Sulla’s civil wars and the proscriptions that followed, amassing enough wealth to have bought her way out of her contract to her patron and start her own school to train other courtesans.

“Lena…”

Leaning forward, Lena took Arin’s hand.

“I will find you a suitable patron,” she promised. “What I told you years ago is still true. You need not do anything you do not wish to. In the meantime, I have spoken with Antony. He insists on your company at Baiae. _Take care_ once you’re there. Baiae is a den of depravity. Never forget you are still a courtesan of this _scholae_.” 

Arin frowned. “I thought our arrangement was broken.”

Lena shrugged one elegant shoulder. “We’ll say he paid beforehand.”

In that moment, Arin understood what Lena was giving her: one last moment alone. A chance to indulge. 

A lump came to Arin’s throat. Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. Lena stood. Arin felt the warm touch of Lena’s kiss on her brow.

“You are the envy of Rome,” she said, smiling. “Remind them of it.”

* * *

The Via Appia was as Arin remembered. After months inside Rome it was a relief to ride Epona again. She had kept the horse in her villa where there was space to run, grasses to graze on. On horseback, clean air filling her lungs, Arin felt lighter. 

Even Antony was distracted. Caesar had gone again. He had only stayed in Italia long enough to put out some of the fires. The matter of debts he dealt with so audaciously Arin hated him all the more even as she admired the craft.

He toured the south of Italia, asking for loans to levy more legions and put an end to the war finally. He was granted the loans—then had the bill of debt forgiveness presented yet again. Only this time, Caesar spelled out—as the man with the single greatest debt in all of the Republic—that _he_ would be its chief beneficiary. And was that at all fair?

The momentum died on the streets. And Caesar had calm in Rome and more money to continue his war.

He took Dolabella with him to Africa. Anyone could see the move for what it was: removing a troublesome element from the place it might do harm. That knowledge in no way soothed Antony’s ego. He had gone into a cold rage and refused to speak to anyone. That on this trip he was already exchanging bawdy jokes with their attendants marked a huge improvement in his mood. 

Rome seemed to have been weighing on him even more than it did her.

With them came a retinue of slaves and guards. Most of their guard was composed of veterans from the Gallic campaigns with many hailing from Cisalpine Gaul. They had fought under Antony’s command and remembered how Antony had introduced the legislation that made them and their families Roman citizens. They were proof that Antony may have been thrown down, but he was not friendless.

Aetius and Syphax both came with her as her personal guards. She stuck close to them, trusting them more than she did the others. Melissa, who had volunteered to come along, also kept near them.

Antonia had been left behind with Victus. It was the first time Arin was separated from her daughter, and it proved harder on her than on Antonia. Clutching her grandfather’s hand, Antonia had waved her parents goodbye, then gone back into the house to look for her new pony. Syphax affectionately teased Arin for her tears, but she could not help them. Antonia was soon to turn three, tall for her age, and so _smart_. The baby Lena had laid at Arin’s breast was not a baby anymore.

Luckily, she had distractions on their journey south. As they neared the massive port town of _Puteoli_ , the stink of sulphur she had perceived the first time assaulted her again. Syphax and Melissa, who had not been with them when they first came this way, stared at everything, wide-eyed.

Beyond _Puteoli_ , where the sea breeze kept the air clean, was the glittering resort town of Baiae. Boasting sulphur baths and gilded piers, purple-shelled oysters and a reputation for hedonism, it was not a place any good Roman would admit to frequenting. Yet every summer Rome emptied of the exceedingly wealthy.

The summer crowd may have passed, but Baiae still reigned.

Almost every building was privately owned so the fierce competition that marked Roman construction was present here. Each villa was grander and more ostentatious than the one before. Even Arin, inured to extravagant displays of wealth in Rome, could only marvel at the intricate mosaics and the faithful recreations of Greek sculpture that adorned the rooms. Their destination proved less a house than a compound, containing splendid baths, heated pools, even saltwater fish farms to supply the table.

It was the home of an associate of Antony and they were not the only ones staying there. As soon as they stepped through the door, Antony was being greeted effusively and Arin too was roped into conversation as if she had part of this set all of her life. Baiae was a place where the wealthy and the powerful mingled—and the man who was once the Master of the Horse could use his charm and good looks to forge new ties.

They sailed on yachts through the bay, staying out on the water until dawn. They stayed up nights at lavish feasts thrown in private villas including one by a distinguished former consul who had retired to Baiae. They crashed countless parties. Arin performed in several: poetry recitations, songs. She directed the men who approached her to contact Lena once they had returned to Rome. Her time was paid for in Baiae. Then she would return to Antony’s side who would take her hand, kiss her knuckles, draw her close.

Neither spoke of what would happen when they left Baiae. Arin tried not to think of it. Baiae was a bubble: they were untouchable inside it. Like something out of a dream. 

“Let’s stay here,” she said to him one morning.

The sun had only recently risen. Rather than wake early, they had not slept at all. The break of the waves against the shore had lulled them both. Antony was half-asleep beside her, his hair in disarray. She amused herself running her hands through the loose curls.

He nosed her abdomen.

“Don’t say things like that,” he warned drowsily. “A man might take it as a challenge.”

“Perhaps I want him to.” 

His arms tightened around her as he pulled himself closer. She giggled quietly at the faint ticklish sensation of his stubble-roughened cheeks against the sensitive skin of her belly.

“We’ll hide out here,” he began to plan. “The house is big enough. If we’re quiet, no one will notice we’ve stayed.”

“If the servants suspect, we can pretend to be spirits,” she continued the thread. “We’ll demand offerings of wine and honey lest they be cursed.”

“Don’t forget the oysters,” he added.

“Of course not. The oysters are the most important part,” she said, smile widening when she felt him smile against her skin.

Antony fell quiet and only the senseless shapes his fingers drew on her hip told her he was still awake. The air around them grew heavy. Arin propped her head on her hand to better look at him.

“What is it?”

Sighing, he turned onto his back. He ran a hand through his hair. When she was going to repeat her question, he spoke.

“When we return to Rome…I’m getting married.”

Arin sat up.

“Married,” she repeated tonelessly.

He sat up too. 

“Aside from the practical reasons, it’s past time I was.” 

“Practical reasons.”

He looked at her. “I’m in debt. And I am without a male heir. A good wife will provide for both.” 

Arin swung her legs off the bed. Unashamed at her nakedness, she padded to the windows.

“Antonia,” she said after a pause. “What becomes of her?”

“She is my daughter,” he said, affronted by her implication. “She will always be my daughter.”

Arin closed her eyes and took a breath. She let it out slowly.

“And what becomes of me?” She turned around to face him. “I assume Antonia and I will have to move out of your house.”

He had the grace to look ashamed.

“You can take anything you want with you.”

Arin laughed mirthlessly. Returning to the bed, she sat on the edge. For once, Antony did not reach for her.

“Four years of pretending is more than I thought we would have,” she said quietly. Turning, she moved closer to him. His arms reflexively opened for her and she settled onto his lap. His eyes searched her face.

“Wed her. Bed her. Get a child on her.” Arin wrapped her hand around his throat. Her thumb traced from his pulse point to under his jaw, pressing until he raised his chin. She lowered her mouth toward his, and watched his lips part in response. Her eyes flicked up to his. “So long as you keep me first.”

“No one could ever take your place.”

She supposed they would learn the truth of that soon.

* * *

On the tenth day of their arrival to Baiae, Antony sent away her servants.

“Tonight,” he said, raising her hand to his mouth, “I want you with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Not far. Have you ever attended the Mysteries of Dionysus?” 

Arin frowned.

“Don’t you need to be initiated into them?”

There was a smile in his dark eyes.

“Do you want to be?”

She was still turning over the strange invitation as she dressed. Sometimes Antony called on a god, but almost always in tone of mockery or derision. She had never known him as one for religion. Her own faith was a frail thing. Her mother had been a high priestess of Tsirona. Her father still prayed to the trees. Her brother despised the gods, and for years Arin had thought them deaf and blind. 

Dionysus was not one of the gods she had grown up with. He was not even Roman. Dionysus—never Bacchus—was a foreigner come from the East. God of wine and the vine. Of madness and ecstasy.

Little wonder Antony preferred him.

The litter stopped before a villa magnificent even by Baiae’s standards. It was easily twice the size of the villa they were staying at with a splendid view of the bay and its own private dock. At the door, a bare-footed woman with her hair unbound welcomed them into the villa. She was dressed simply in white and violet linens, but the material and colors were too expensive for her to be a servant.

She led them deeper into the house into the private quarters typically never opened to guests and to another set of doors.

“Be welcome,” she bid them as she opened the door for them.

At no point did she ask her for their names nor did she offer hers.

The room inside was large with windows hewn high into the walls that let in the refreshing sea breeze. That was all Arin noticed before her attention was taken by the walls. Red. All red. The exact shade depended on the flicker of candlelight: from rose, to rust, to blood-red. Nearest Arin was a fresco of a woman removing her veil. She was moving toward a gathering in the woods a little ways away. Further still, the same woman reacted to the revelry beginning before her. In the center of the wall had been painted a throne with a different woman seated upon it and, laying across her lap, a long-haired and beardless naked man crowned with ivy and holding a bunch of grapes: Dionysus. Curtained alcoves separated each fresco from the other.

Only then did Arin turn her head to find a half dozen men and women gathered inside, speaking quietly. Waiting. She and Antony had surely been recognized, but just as the woman who brought them here had not bothered with introductions no one here did either. 

As they moved through the group, Arin saw men, women, Romans and foreigners, even a child. This was Dionysus’ cult: a place where all were equal. 

Little wonder they had to practice in secret.

The woman who had greeted them at the door returned bearing a long pole wound with ivy and topped with a pinecone. The priestess, she took her place at the head of the room, smiling at those gathered. She spoke in a clear, sweet voice.

“I call upon Dionysus, He of Two Natures, Twice-Born…” 

At the end of the invocation, she made an offering of wine to Dionysus before moving among the initiates. Each of the new initiates swore an oath to Dionysus; then they drank.

When Arin’s turn came, she hesitated. But when she looked into the priestess’ eyes, there was a gentle wisdom in her face that reminded Arin of her mother. A sharp sense of missing pierced her heart. Voice no louder than a whisper, she spoke the vow, then drank from the cup the priestess touched to her lips.

The wine was stronger and sweeter than any Arin had tasted. It lay heavy on her tongue. She felt the warmth of it flow down her throat and spread in her stomach. Within moments, she felt strangely lightheaded.

Antony was behind her to catch her before she stumbled.

“Breathe deep,” he suggested.

When she did, the world steadied around her.

“How did you know?”

“This is not my first time,” he said with one of his strangely serious smiles.

A boy wreathed in ivy began to read from a scroll. The priestess lingered behind him, one hand on his shoulder. In her lap, she held another scroll. The resemblance in their features told Arin he was her son.

In a high, lilting voice, the boy told the story of Dionysus’ origin: the only god to have a mortal mother, Semele, a Theban princess beloved by Zeus. Zeus made her a promise by the river Styx to grant her anything she asked of him. But Hera, ever jealous, tricked Semele into asking Zeus to reveal himself to her. No mortal could look upon a god’s true form and live, and Zeus had sworn an unbreakable vow. Regretfully, he presented himself to Semele in all his splendor and the brightness of his light consumed her. But Zeus rescued her unborn child and sewed him into his thigh from where Dionysus was born a second time.

This child grew into a man who brought his knowledge of the grapevine where he went, who performed miracles with wine, who was violently killed and was reborn, who ventured into the underworld to rescue the mother he had never met and elevated her to Olympus, a mortal woman among gods.

As he read, two musicians accompanied him: one on a drum, another on a pan flute. Arin felt warmer and warmer until she was sure she was feverish.

Beside her, a young woman knelt on the floor, swaying to the music. Tears streamed down her face. She was the first to undress, her hands ripping her dark woolen tunic to shreds. Arin bent by her to stop her, but the priestess laid a hand on her shoulder.

“This is the god manifesting,” she said.

The priestess brushed the young woman’s hair away from her face in maternal gesture. With her other hand, she helped remove the ruined tunic. It was then that Arin noticed the lingering roundness of the woman’s belly, the weight she had yet to shed from her hips.

“Your son’s life is ever-lasting,” the priestess spoke to the keening woman. “Never do we die for the soul is incorruptible and immortal. We pass only to a happier state than these mean conditions. So Dionysus promises us. As he raised his mother from Hades, he will keep your child.”

“Yes,” the woman wept. “Yes. Blessed be.”

After the priestess had seen to her initiate’s well-being, she looked kindly to Arin.

“Yours is a new face,” she said. “But you are no stranger to the Mysteries.”

“My mother is a priestess of the Great Goddess,” said Arin. “Here, they call her Ceres.”

“I know her well. She is sometimes sister, sometimes consort, sometimes mother to our Dionysus. Ceres and Dionysus, of all the gods, love us best.”

Arin shook her head, and the world took to spinning. “I thought this was…”

“Drunkenness and debauchery, a reason to rend your clothes and be sick come morning?” The priestess smiled. “Wine is the essence of the god. On the one hand, it is joy-giving. By the other, it brings terrible rages. But in his presence, for a moment, we too are made divine.”

Arin rose unsteadily to her feet. When she lifted her hand, Antony clasped it. He threaded their fingers together. She leaned heavily against him, resting her cheek against the wool of his toga. He groaned low in his throat when she wound her hand around his neck. His skin was hot to her touch and she felt almost like burning. Her vision was ringed by halos.

The beat of the drum was in her bones, thrummed through her limbs. The men and women gathered added the stomp of their feet, the sound of their voices to the insistent rhythm. When she blinked, the forests painted onto the walls had deepened. When she looked again, only the trees existed. Above them was the starry sky. Her feet danced upon leaves.

A goat was sacrificed and everyone painted with its blood. One of the initiates scoured his back with a switch made of ivy. Another danced wildly, striking cymbals between her fingers. Arin ripped the pins from her hair. It tumbled to her waist. She lost her sandals. She glided on her toes. The fire blazed hotter, but there was no getting away from it. It burned white-hot inside her. She had been made a slave, barbarian, whore. All flashed white into silvered ash, leaving her lighter than she had been. Purified.

She cried and she laughed.

Throughout it all—twisting around a reveler, now stepping with another—she and Antony held onto each other. She unwound the heavy toga from him. He pushed her tunic off her shoulder. They sank together into one of the alcoves. The beat of her heart had deepened. She rose and fell atop his body, his hands skimming her sides, encouraging her movement. He sat up, his arms locking around her, and the drum lived in his chest, in hers. It was agony. It was bliss. Their bodies were awash in shadow.

She opened her eyes with a gasp. She clung, trembling, to Antony’s back. She stared above her, the lingering images of the vision fading at the corners of her vision. Her bare feet had touched black earth. Grey waves had lapped gently against the shore. A weird blue mist had twisted around her like a caress. When she tried to step into the river, the mist had wrapped around her ankle and stopped her. 

But the more she tried to remember the more details slipped through her hands like water. 

Arin let her head rest heavily atop Antony’s. Little tremors continued to seize her body. Antony breathed heavily against her collarbone. His tongue caught a drop of sweat on the hollow of her throat. Her fingers curled through the sweat-soaked hair at his nape until she could tilt his face up. In the muted light, his eyes shone wild. And she was Ariadne on the shores of Naxos looking upon Dionysus’ face for the first time. 

“Are you man or god?”

“I am yours,” he vowed.

 _Liar_ , she thought without malice as she lowered her head. 

His kiss was more inebriating than the wine.

* * *

Antony was married a few weeks after their return to Rome.

Arin was not invited. She was awake before daybreak walking among her olive trees. Weddings took place in the early morning and as the sun rose above the branches a sorrow she refused to give voice to gripped her chest. A little hand touched her leg. Looking down, she found Antonia had followed her out. When Arin picked her up, the little girl hugged her around the neck. Arin kissed her daughter’s messy curls and held her tight. Antonia’s heartbeat fluttered rapidly against her own.

Antony came two days after the wedding bearing gifts for Arin and Antonia. Arin recognized them for what they were—guilt—and accepted hers with a quiet murmur of thanks, lifting her hair so that he could tie the opal necklace around her. 

Antonia was happily tearing through the garden with a little bow and six blunted arrows, Artemis keeping pace with her. She missed the target her father set up for her by a wide margin and broke a vase. Laughing, Antony only encouraged her. He made no mention of his wife, and Arin did not ask.

His wife was Fulvia, Curio’s widow. By all accounts, she was an excellent match: wealthy, good reputation, proven fertile. With his marriage to her, Antony also became three times a stepfather: to Fulvia’s son and daughter from her first marriage; and to the son she birthed Curio.

Fulvia’s first husband had been a son of the Claudii, one of the most prominent families in Rome. He had shifted away from his family—proud, disdainful of the common people, _patrician_ to the core—and been adopted into the plebeians, even changing his name to its plebeian pronunciation: Clodius.

All the stories agreed Clodius had been as arrogant as the rest of his family. Only Clodius had advocated fiercely for the cause of the common people. Among his achievements had been securing the free distribution of grain by the state to Rome’s poor. So beloved had he been that five years after his murder there were those who remained staunchly loyal to his memory—and who extended that loyalty to Antony’s new wife.

Exactly what a plebeian politician, recently disgraced, needed to build up his base once more.

From Lucius, she learned a few more entertaining details. In the Forum—still the favored place for gossip—she waited for him to approach her. Aetius shadowed them.

“I’ve known her for years,” Lucius said to her question. “Shared circles. Growing up, my brother and Curio were inseparable, and they were both part of Clodius’ group. Clodius was very fond of her. He rarely went anywhere without her. It was even a point in his murderer’s defense.” 

“Was that the trial that Antony helped to prosecute?”

“The very same. Like I said, shared circles.” Lucius grinned. “Not that it stopped Marcus from trying to kill him.”

Arin’s mouth fell open. “What?”

“Oh, this was _years_ ago. Marcus chased Clodius through the Forum. Would have caught him except Clodius took refuge in that bookshop over there and managed to bar the door.”

“But— _why?_ ”

Lucius shrugged. 

“Clodius liked to pick fights and Marcus likes fighting. I never questioned that it happened, only that it happened once.”

Where Lucius spoke of his brother’s marriage with the indifference of old news, Victus was furious. It was almost funny to watch, though Arin’s amusement might have been thanks to the wine. 

“I thought you disliked him,” she commented, filling her cup.

“I’d like to geld him,” Victus asserted.

“I’d rather you didn’t. He’s been a good father.”

“And he can continue to be one without balls.”

“Please don’t say that where Antonia can hear you,” asked Arin. “She repeats everything.”

Her father shook his head before joining her at the table. Arin laid a hand on his wrist.

“I know you dislike him, Father.” An understatement. Her father disliked Lucius. He despised Antony. “But this was going to happen eventually. We both knew it.”

“It’s not right,” Victus argued. “You should be married. To a man who thanks the stars every night that he is your husband.”

“I’m a courtesan, Father. I can’t be married.” She swirled the wine in her cup. “Even if I could, I could not marry _him_. Former slaves don’t marry into noble families. Even the plebeian.”

Shame twisted Victus’ face.

“Arin—”

“I have no regrets,” she lied and she was gratified that her voice did not shake. “I have an enviable position. Antonia will have more opportunities than I could have ever dreamt. I can keep you safe.”

Victus held her hand. 

“And this wife?”

“Will be at her house and I shall be at mine.” Arin forced a smile. “No wife cares to meet her husband’s mistress.”

* * *

Arin was practicing the cithara, Artemis napping in a sunny spot by her feet, when Melissa approached. 

“You have a visitor.”

Arin frowned. “Who?” 

It was not often that she received uninvited guests. Her clients were known to the servants as was Sabina. Antony and Lucius both had enough familiarity as to come find her themselves rather than be announced.

Melissa shifted uncomfortably, not meeting her eyes.

“She says her name is Fulvia, _domina_. She has two children with her.”

Arin stood abruptly. Artemis raised her head. In the garden where they had been playing, Antonia and Cirta both looked up at Arin’s sudden movement.

“Stay with Antonia,” Arin bid Victus who had been sharpening a knife nearby. He nodded.

In her bedroom, she dropped the cithara on the bed. Her hair was unbound, her face clean. She quickly outlined her eyes in kohl and stained her lips while Melissa tied a belt around Arin’s waist and draped a shawl around her shoulders. Arin shook her hair out to make its appearance look deliberate then strode out to the vestibule.

Fulvia was admiring the frescoes depicting the Italian countryside. In a pale green _stola_ richly embroidered with a floral pattern and a complementary veil, she looked right at home in a pastoral scene. She wore her brown hair up, a few curling locks left deliberately free to frame her face. A brown-haired boy of an age with Antonia held his mother’s hand. Curio’s son. Lingering by them was Fulvia’s ten-year-old daughter from her first marriage. It was the girl who noticed Arin. She gave a tug at her mother’s sleeve, shifting closer to her. 

Fulvia turned with a polite smile. It was she who spoke first.

“I hope you do not mind the intrusion.” 

Fulvia was soft-spoken, but not out of any timidity. Arin got the feeling that there had never been a timid bone in Fulvia’s body. Fulvia laid a hand on her daughter’s shoulder.

“My husband has told Clodia much of her stepsister. I had been hoping to broach the subject with him, but he has been occupied so I took it upon myself to visit. I see no reason our children should grow up as strangers.”

Fulvia’s mention of _her husband_ had Arin’s hackles rising. But she was not about to jealously yell at a woman in front of her children, both of whom were staring. Nor could Arin refuse without it getting back to Antony that she had thrown his stepchildren, including the only son of his late friend, out of her house. Fulvia had planned this well.

“I see no reason for that, either,” Arin said instead, swallowing the insult to her pride. 

Clodia moved closer still to her mother when Arin looked at her. The girl had a round, sweet face and pale grey eyes. A _lunula_ winked from the folds of her tunic. Her half-brother at first glance was a miniature of his father, so much so that Arin felt a pang. She had not known Curio as long or as well as Antony, but she had liked him and his end had been atrocious. His son wore the boy’s version of Antonia’s and Clodia’s protective amulet: a solid gold _bulla_ , its shape not unlike a scallop’s shell, hanging from a gold chain.

Arin smiled warmly at both children to set them at ease.

“Antonia will be excited to meet you both.” 

Back in the _peristylium_ Victus had engaged Antonia in a game of knucklebones. Her form of “playing” consisted in tossing the stone away and grabbing all the knucklebones. It drove her grandfather to distraction every time, but when she played against anyone else—and especially against Syphax or Lucius—Victus was the first to defend her.

Arin called her daughter’s name. Antonia hopped up and ran to her mother, her hair wild. More than one person had suggested Arin cut it, but she could not bear to. It fell to the small of Antonia’s back in unruly curls as black as a raven’s wing. 

Antonia took one look at her stepbrother and stepsister and demanded, “Who are you?” 

Fulvia smiled. Arin laid a hand on Antonia’s hair.

“These are special guests. They’re here to spend the day with you.”

After looking to her mother for permission, Clodia took her brother’s hand and stepped forward.

“My name is Clodia. This is my brother, Gaius.”

Arin bent by her daughter. “Why don’t you take them to meet Artemis and Cirta?” 

As easy as that, Antonia had grabbed Clodia by the other hand and begun to tug her and Gaius back to where Victus was picking up their game. He carefully removed himself from the scene. He gave Arin a look, and she answered with a diminutive shake of her head.

Seats were brought out and food and drink. Arin invited Fulvia to join her where they could keep an eye on their children. For a moment they were both silent, watching as Antonia presented Artemis and Cirta to her stepbrother and stepsister.

“I hope I am not out of line, _domina_ —”

“Fulvia,” she interrupted politely, “please. There is no need for formality between us. We’ve both known my husband’s cock.”

Arin did not know what surprised her more: the matter-of-fact broaching of her relationship to Antony or Fulvia’s use of the word cock.

“Then we can speak plainly.” Arin kept her tone pleasant for the sake of the children. “Why are you here?”

“So that my children can meet their stepsister.”

Arin raised a disbelieving eyebrow. Fulvia smiled.

“You may doubt me, but that was my reason.” 

“And what else could your visit have accomplished?”

“Her mother would undoubtedly be present. And I would meet the woman whose company Antony frequents.”

By her tone, she may as well have been commenting on fabrics for a new dress.

Arin returned her gaze to the garden. “I can’t be his only lover.”

“No,” Fulvia agreed. “But it is you who has been his constant. Your reputation precedes you, of course. But to have kept his attention so long…” She lifted her gaze delicately at their surroundings. “He spoils you. He acknowledged your daughter.”

“Antonia is his child,” Arin answered a touch sharply. “She could be no other’s.” 

Arin did not care what Fulvia thought of her. But she would not tolerate a word against her daughter. Fulvia acknowledged Arin’s unspoken meaning.

“Indeed. She has his look. Though softened by her mother’s fine features. She will be a beauty when she’s older.” 

Arin gave a begrudging “Thank you.” Antonia had got Artemis to offer her paw. Now she was trying to get Gaius to do it. Seated behind him, Clodia encouraged him.

Arin picked one of the dates from the plate.

“You have another son, yes?” 

Fulvia tipped her chin down in a little nod.

“Publius. He is twelve. Almost a man. I’d like to always keep him with me, but there are things a boy can only learn at his father’s side.”

And he had lost two already, poor child. Arin had not known much about his father, but she remembered the day Clodius died. It had been about two years before her debut, but even in the _scholae_ there was no getting away from the chaos. The former people’s tribune had been murdered on the very road his ancestors built, and his widow, distraught, had taken to the streets, condemning the violence that took him. The common people, for whom Clodius had long been their champion, took the body from his house and marched it into the old Curia where they built his funeral pyre. So high and so hot did the fire burn that it consumed the old senate building along with the body. 

Curio’s body had not been recovered. She had never sent word, doubtful that Fulvia remembered her or that it would have been appropriate, but she knew Lucius had.

“We were all grieved to hear of Curio’s death. He was a good man.”

Fulvia accepted the condolences without a word, watching the children.

“He spoke to me of you,” she said after a moment’s pause. “The great Gallic beauty. You make for a curious subject.”

Experience had taught Arin in what way Rome found her curious. To her own ears, she sounded bored. 

“As the barbarian in Rome?”

“As the Gaul,” Fulvia corrected, “who took for a patron an intimate of Julius Caesar.”

Arin regarded her out the corner of her eye. 

“Taking an intimate of Pompey’s was bad business as you know. Curio became an intimate of Caesar following his marriage to you.” 

It was something Curio had told her: that he had only recently come to the reformer’s side of the schism. If her memory was true, the timing of his change from _optimas_ to _popularis_ would have coincided with his taking Fulvia for a wife.

Fulvia’s small smile was Arin’s confirmation.

“It had less to do with Caesar, I assure you. My first husband, the gods keep him, did a lot of good in Rome. He saw that change was necessary. Curio respected him. And he knew how important it was for my oldest children to see their father’s legacy live on.”

 _He could wield more influence taking up Clodian politics_ , Arin translated. Especially as husband to Clodius’ widow and stepfather to Clodius’ children.

For the first time, Arin truly considered the woman beside her. Fulvia had lost her first husband to the cutthroat politics of Rome, leaving her with two young children; three years and a newborn later, her second husband was killed in combat. Now she was married a third time to a man who pledged neither love or fidelity to her, who no longer enjoyed the positions he once had.

Arin knew what had drawn Antony to the marriage. But she had never considered what had led Fulvia to accept the proposal. 

“You had no need to marry again.” Another guess. Yet as Arin spoke it she knew it to be true. “You might have been free.”

“As you are?” 

Arin did not know what to make of Fulvia’s light tone. 

“I am at liberty choose my patrons.”

“As I chose my husband,” said Fulvia. “And as I can also choose to divorce him.”

“But you have no intention to.” It was not a question.

Fulvia delicately set down her wine.

“The trappings of wife and courtesan are…just that. The truth is we are women and this is not a kind world for women. We come to believe us pitted against one another.” 

“Are we not?”

Fulvia met her gaze.

“Your daughter is stepsister to my children. She will be half-sister to the children I now bear. There is no reason for animosity. Should my husband wish to be as Janus, so be it—so long as one face looks to me.”

Her meaning was plain. Arin smiled.

“Then we have an understanding.”

Among the flowers, Antonia and Gaius ran through the paths, laughing, as Clodia gamely gave chase.

* * *

With the end of her once exclusive arrangement public, Arin found herself again in high demand. Lepidus hired her once, ostensibly so that he would not have to talk to his guests, and she attended the opening day of the games honoring Jupiter on the arm of another of Caesar’s generals, Decimus Brutus. 

Another who had spent his youth running in the same group as Antony, Curio and Clodius, Decimus too had found great favor with Caesar. He had been named governor of Gaul following the end of Caesar’s term and was in Rome only briefly before returning to his post. Among his retinue were several Gauls, including two chieftains who had bent the knee early to Rome. She thought she saw recognition in the eyes of one, but when she looked at him again he had schooled his expression.

Tonight, she would be attending a party thrown by another Brutus: Marcus Junius. A former Pompeian, Caesar had personally forgiven and welcomed him back following the Battle of Pharsalus.

“His mother, Servilia, has long been Caesar’s paramour,” Lena explained as she helped Arin with her makeup. “Caesar shows him great favor.”

“What joy.”

“There’ll be none of that,” scolded Lena. “These are sensible men of good reputation—”

“Unlikely to upset their patron.”

Lena raised an eyebrow. “Precisely.”

Arin fell quiet while Lena finished. In the mirror, she turned her head. Her eyebrows had been filled in and drawn closer together. Her eyes were lined with kohl and a subtle brush of powdered azurite to emphasize their brown. A vermilion smile crossed her face.

None but she would know it as artifice.

Dressed in layers of gauzy blue and violet silk, Arin set off for Brutus’ home. Aetius kept pace beside her. As a slave allowed her inside the villa, she wondered what kind of man her new patron would be. Lepidus was dependable and dull; Decimus, proud and confident in Caesar’s favor. 

This other Brutus had a younger-looking, unassuming face, marred only by the permanent frown lines on his brow. His eyes were a shade of brown darker than his hair. He smiled, taking her by the hands and kissing her in greeting.

“Be welcome, Arin. I had thought the rumors of your beauty exaggerated, but now I find them woefully inadequate.” 

“They always are,” she said. Aetius settled unobtrusively behind her. “Though I shall be terribly disappointed if that is the only rumor about me.” 

“You would have Rome speaking of you?”

“If they do not speak of me, they have forgotten me. Would you see me forgotten?”

“I doubt any man could,” he said, smile widening. “As I doubt you have anything to fear. But I will do my part to feed rumor after tonight.” 

She bowed her head. “That is all I ask.” 

Brutus led her where many of the guests were already assembled, including his young wife. Claudia Pulchra was a woman whose loveliness befitted her family’s cognomen. Arin recognized the color and shape of Claudia’s eyes: her cousin, little Clodia, had the same pale grey eyes. When Arin was presented to her, Claudia afforded her a polite nod.

“No Catullus,” she said without greeting. “I’ve heard enough of his mewling for a lifetime. I am told you compose.”

“I do, _domina_.”

“Then perhaps you will grace us with one. Something happy.”

As Arin took her place before the guests, pulling sweet notes from the cithara’s strings, two more guests arrived: Antony and Fulvia.

She had seen him not two days ago, had her breakfast stolen by him, yet her heart still beat faster like she was a lovesick girl. Antony was garbed in a wool toga dyed a rich indigo. The geometric pattern on its edge, exquisitely done in bronze thread, matched the pattern of his tunic’s collar. Holding his hand, Fulvia was elegant in a high-necked gown of burnt umber, a _stola_ embellished in bronze draped over her shoulder and across one arm. 

They made for a handsome couple. A surge of unkindness gripped Arin by the throat.

Antony’s eyes swept the room until he spotted Brutus who had risen to greet them.

“You weren’t going to start the entertainment without us,” Antony demanded good-naturedly.

Brutus’ smile faltered briefly before he recovered.

“Of course not, Antony. Be welcome. Fulvia, you look lovely.”

For a moment, Arin wondered why Antony would have been invited. There seemed to be no love lost between the two men. Then she saw Claudia greeting Fulvia warmly. Arrogant the Claudii may have been, but they were also famously—sometimes infamously—close. Fulvia had been married to one and was the mother of two.

Another door she opened for Antony.

Turning away from them, Arin let her fingers play across the strings. As conversation hushed, she began to sing. 

“Many are those Fortuna lifts to her shining embrace; many more she pitches, suddenly, into the black sea. Take my hand, my love, and we shall be as the waves—returning, always, to shore…”

When she was finished, she took to mingling. Conversation flowed easily and Arin settled fully into her role. She had moved on from one senator when a familiar voice brought her to a stop.

“Inspired by recent events?”

Cassius looked well; marriage suited him. Aetius moved closer, not reaching for a weapon, but making his presence known. Arin regarded Cassius evenly, wondering at his purpose.

“Perhaps I was.” 

She angled her body toward his and he took the invitation to step closer.

“It has been a tumultuous year.” He lifted his eyes to their surroundings. “I hope the next will finally bring peace.”

“Does Rome know peace?”

“It did once,” he said, a regretful note in his voice. “Though not in living memory. I still dream that I will see the Gates of Janus closed in my lifetime.”

“I think that’s a sentiment best sent to Africa.”

Cassius smiled. “There is no one who can dissuade Cato from his cause nor would I. He’s a true Roman. Committed to the values of the Republic.”

Arin’s eyebrows lifted delicately. “Is that a safe opinion to speak here?”

“It is truth,” he corrected, “and one more commonly held than you might think. Your patron tonight would be the first to agree.”

He nodded to her patron who was approaching them. Brutus smiled at her and Cassius. 

“I hope I am not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” said Cassius. “We were just discussing the changing of the tides.” 

“As certain as rocks fall,” she said.

“I hope you will grace us with another song,” Brutus asked of her.

“Of course.”

Arin felt Cassius’ stare boring into the back of her neck. As she followed Brutus back toward the head of the room, congratulations arose from a small group. Brutus turned toward it. Claudia was in the midst of it calling for more wine. Brutus came to stand beside her.

“What goes, my dear?”

“That would be our news,” Fulvia spoke up, looking to Antony where he was biting into a cake. Her eyes were shining.

A heavy weight dropped into Arin’s stomach.

Antony sucked the honey off his thumb, a grin threatening at the corner of his mouth. He waited a moment, allowing the anticipation to build.

“My wife is with child,” he announced. “A son, we’ve been assured.”

Congratulations and well-wishes broke out from all assembled. Antony smiled at Fulvia. Taking her hand, he pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

There felt as many eyes on Arin as there were on the happy couple. With her long relationship with Antony well known, Arin knew there would be those hoping for a scene. She refused to give them one.

“My congratulations, _domine_. _Domina_.”

Antony’s smile dropped slightly when he looked at her, but he quickly recovered. Fulvia, her poise unassailable, acknowledged Arin graciously.

In their honor, Arin’s next song was one to Juno and she took another request before excusing herself, claiming need for a drink. Pressure built in her chest. She was able to make it into the gardens before a tiny, choked sob escaped her. No one approached her for which she knew she had Aetius to thank. 

She did not even know why she was acting like this. She told Antony to marry. She told him to have a child. When he asked, she gave him her blessing and let that be the end. But knowing what would happen did not prepare her for the jealous blow that was seeing him look at another woman with so much affection. She turned her face up to the night sky, dragging in deep lungfuls of air.

Someone touched her elbow. She whirled around, startled. Lucius smiled at her. She had not even noticed him among the guests.

“I’m joining you this time,” he said without preamble.

In his hands he held a cup and a jug of wine.

“I’m not paid to get drunk,” she reminded him, already reaching for the cup.

“This is Rome, my dear. We are not paid to do anything else.”

When they finally left, Arin was somewhat unsteady. She had not had too much to drink—Lena had done her job well of impressing on her courtesans the risks of indulging. Still, she was grateful for Aetius whose arm she was holding. She had expected a warning about her behavior, but he was quiet as he guided her away from the villa.

“How many times is it now you’ve come after me?”

“I lost the count in Italia,” he said so seriously she could not tell if he was joking. 

She was peering at his face trying to figure that out when she felt him tense. A second later, she heard the soft sound of a footstep behind them.

Aetius pushed her behind him, one hand going to the hilt of his knife. They were still close to the villa. One shout would surely draw the guards at the doors. Before she could do just that, the stranger spoke. 

“Arin of the Catauni!”

Heedless of the risk, Arin stepped out from behind her guard. She frowned at the figure. Only after a moment did she realize he had spoken in Gaulish.

“How do you know my tribe…”

Her voice faded to nothing.

The man was wide in the shoulders, with thick arms and thick legs. His brown hair had been shorn so short she caught glimpses of his scalp in the moonlight. Underneath a short tunic, he wore pants. His face was sharper now, the childhood roundness long since lost to exertion and time.

But she knew him. She would have known him in leathers and fur, in mud, in blue.

“Cingerix.”


End file.
